


A Place without Judgment

by kate_the_reader



Series: Godfrey [2]
Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Follow on, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: James promised Godfrey there would be no judgment on his ship as they sailed to  new world and a new life. But is that possible?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined their back story at school in [Exquisite Torture](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9802976), which I reference in this story, so it is worth reading that one first.  
> In my world Godfrey is Michael William Godfrey, and he prefers to be called William.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you as ever to mycitruspocket, MsBrightsideSH and chasingriver, for helping me to imagine this story, and for reading it as it developed and helping to make it better.

**Chapter one**

Eventually, he goes up on deck. The cool rush of air is welcome after the close, dim below-decks, and the pitch and roll of the ship easier to ignore. 

James is standing in the bow, looking out ahead, his long coat fanned behind him. William doesn't move forward, just stands by the hatchway, his skirts whipping against his legs, the wind tugging at his wig. He closes his eyes and tips his face into the breeze and just breathes his relief at their escape.

He never expected to get away. From the moment James asked him to pass information, he had expected to be found out, taken up, got rid of. He’s seen how the company operates, how ruthless Sir Stuart is towards his enemies and perceived enemies, how easily he orders the end of them. 

But he had done it anyway, almost powerless to resist James. 

All those years thinking him dead. 

The terrible, delicious shock of seeing him stride into the committee room — he can still feel it. 

His sick mortification at being found out by James. 

But James hadn't seemed to care that William was wearing a gown and a wig and paint. He has revisited their conversation in his mind endlessly — why had he confessed his boyhood pain so freely? Of course James knew, even if he pretended otherwise. And even that had not seemed to disgust him. 

William’s nervousness, his prevarication, had though. So he had resolved to act as though he felt no nerves; had thrown himself into James’ service.

And now he is here, on the heaving deck of this ship that does not seem equal to the open sea and even on the calm river feels flimsy and tenuous.

The deck shakes in a different way and the tread of heavy boots gives away another presence. William opens his eyes; James has come to where he is standing, (“ _aft_ ”, he thinks, _“he’s come aft”_ ), and is peering at him from under the brim of that hat.

“Alright?” he says. “Are you alright? Not hurt?”

“No, I—”

But James cuts him off with a grunt and disappears down the hatchway, walking stiffly, almost limping. William doesn't follow, but steps over to the side of the deck where he can gain a handhold and look up into the rigging. The breeze is steady and the tide is running out. He has no idea how close they are to the coast or how long it might take to reach the sea. They were fortunate to catch the ebb tide in time, despite the attack at the docks.

Looking into the ordered confusion of ropes and sails he recalls his lessons long ago, when the ratlines had terrified him and the angle of the wind had puzzled him and James had taught him the confidence to climb, and the mathematics. And taught him longing, taught him pleasure, even though he had not known he was doing so. But now is not the time for that. 

He looks aft and sees the bald, tattoo’d head of Atticus, James’ partner in crime, at the helm. The other tattoo’d man, the huge, wild man who had rowed William to safety, is not to be seen. William did not witness the bloody battle at the dock, being in the shed and then hustled below decks, but several of James’ motley band fell, he knows. And Cholmondley, the little chemist, and the woman, Lorna, lie injured below-decks.

James emerges on deck again. “You are needed below deck,” he growls.

William should be used to his brusqueness, but it does sting. Still, he is needed; he has a place. He descends the ladder, his skirts tangling about his ankles. Cholmondley’s condition is unchanged, his breathing rough, he is barely conscious. His wounds are terrible. There’s nothing William can do for him. No easing his suffering.

The woman, Lorna, is asleep. He doesn't know how severe her wound is. She was conscious and speaking as they set sail, but without drugs pain may twist her and infection set in. Cholmondley would know these things. He may have packed drugs, but were they ever put aboard?

The woman stirs. “James?” she murmurs.

“He is on deck, but I am here. William Godfrey.”

She peers at him through the gloom, licks her lips. William carries her a mug of water from the butt at the end of room (“ _cabin_ ”, he thinks). She attempts to rise on an elbow and William supports her head. After she has drunk water she squints at him again. “William?” she says. “Ah, a costume.” She slumps back down. “Lorna … Delaney. Bow.” She is drifting again and William takes the mug. He places his hand on her forehead. She feels a little warm, he thinks.

How is he to nurse her? “Miss?” he says, “are you in pain?”

She purses her mouth in a moue of amusement. “Miss?” she says. “I am James’ step-mother.”

“Forgive me. Your wound?”

“I hardly feel it.”

“May I see?”

She shrugs. 

Blood has crusted on her shift, but it is not flowing. “It seems … not too severe,” he says. “It would be well to clean it, however.” 

She seems indifferent, too tired to care. Where is everyone else? Where is that girl? It might be easier if she was to perform this service. “Mrs Delaney? I could clean it, but you might prefer a woman’s hand. I could find the girl?”

“Just do it,” she sighs. So he fetches another mug of water and finds a clean rag and tries his best to clean the wound. It doesn’t seem the ball entered her flesh, it is more of a gash. Perhaps it will heal soon enough without severe pain or the danger of infection.

“Mr Cholmondley?” she asks as he finishes. What can he say? He shakes his head. 

“Oh,” she says. “Funny little man. Thank you,” she adds. “Your hands are gentle.” Her eyes slip shut. 

Time passes slowly as William sits in the gloom listening to Lorna and Cholmondley sigh in their unquiet sleep. The ship pitches and he fights down a feeling of sickness. The hated shipcraft lessons from school are returning. The thought of climbing the ratlines is terrifying, but he may be called upon. If only he knew just how many men James has to sail this ship. 

“Godders.” James is speaking quietly, William must have dozed off. “Godders, wake up!” He blinks, it is darker, no light from the hatchway. 

“Have you any other clothes?”

“Man’s clothes, you mean? Yes. I don’t know where they stowed my things, though.” He is also speaking softly, not to disturb the sleepers. 

“I need you on deck,” says James, stepping over to Lorna’s cot. He looks down at her with an unreadable expression. “We have to sail this damned ship somehow.”

“James, I ...” James turns back to him and the light from the lantern catches his face. It is weary, and there is a wildness in his eyes. William swallows his protest and stands up. “Of course,” he says. “I can haul on a rope even in a gown.” 

On deck the darkness is almost absolute, save for the helmsman’s lantern casting shadows on Atticus’ face. James has followed him up the hatchway and walks aft. “Atticus,” he says, “Godfrey has come to haul upon a rope.” Atticus raises a sceptical eyebrow, but gestures at the rope he needs adjusted. William takes hold of it, its roughness biting into his soft palms. He’d left the school and taken up the clerk’s position before much actual ship handling was taught, but he has hauled a rope before. James comes up behind him and William has to close his eyes, centre himself. James reaches round him, his big hand closing over William’s and shifting his grip. “Like that,” he says, and steps away. He could have hauled the rope himself, but William understands his intent and is grateful.

His hands sting when he finishes the task, but he doesn't show it. James is standing with Atticus at the helm. “No pause, not yet,” he hears James say. “How long do you think?”

“Several days,” says Atticus. “Depends on the weather.” James grunts his acceptance and turns away, catching sight of William. “Come, Godders,” he says. Of course William follows him. Down the hatch, through the space where Cholmondley and Lorna are still asleep, into another, smaller cabin.

“Not much room. I'm sorry.” James gestures at the space. “Your things are here.” 

William's bag is on the cot. He turns to look at James. “For me? Is that fair? What of Lorna? And the girl?”

“There’s room for them. I thought you might like … But Godders, I need you. I don't know how we’re going to sail this ship. Everyone who can haul a rope and climb, must.” 

“And you thought, what? That I might rather sit below decks in a gown keeping my hands soft? No, James.” He reaches out a hand, lays it on James’ arm. Turns it over to show the welts. “No. My hands will be hard soon enough. I will be in breeches tomorrow.”

James gives him an intent look, softening into a half-smile. “Fuck, Billy, what have we done?”

“I have done what you asked of me.” 

James says nothing in reply, merely ducks his head and backs through the low door. “Get some rest.”

The space is tiny, lit by a dim lantern. William sits on the cot and pulls his wig off, scratches his scalp in relief. Everything he has known is behind him now, left in the wake of their escape. Nothing will be the same, and he must remake himself — again. He unfastens his gown, steps out of it and leaves it on the floor. He lies down and tries to sleep. The pitch of the ship is oddly soothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two**

The sound of rushing feet on deck wakes him. The darkness in the cabin is profound and William feels through his bag for a pair of breeches, pulls them on over the shift he lay down in, jams his feet into his shoes. He steps out into the main space, where there is at least some light. Cholmondley has not stirred, of course, but Lorna is leaning up on an elbow. “What is happening?” she asks, wild-eyed. “Are we aground? Are we foundering?”

“Do not alarm yourself,” says William. “I will find out.” _Where is that girl?_

He hurries up the ladder. On deck, the wind is much stronger and there is a tang of the sea. They are at the mouth. James is at the helm, while Atticus and a tall, thin man are trimming the sails. 

“What can I do?” says William when he reaches James. The deck is heaving under his feet. 

“Take the helm so I can go aloft.” He does not stay to make sure of William, simply steps away from the great wheel, leaving William alone there with no choice but to seize the spokes. 

The ship is like a living creature under his hands and he has to brace to master it. But as the sails are reduced the ship quiets, like a mount calmed by a soft word and a firm hand on the reins. James slides back down the ratline and lands on the deck with thump. 

“Fuck,” he says. “We won’t get far like this.”

“Surely we cannot sail to America?” says William, since James seems in a mood to speak of such things.

“Ah, but we are not going to America, only to the Azores, and even we small band may achieve that. If a storm does not blow up in the Bay.” James looks at him and William can see the wildness in his eyes, a mad sort of delight. “If everyone does as they are told. Godders, will you help me?”

“What choice do I have?”

“None, you are right.” James laughs, mirthless and mad. “None.” But he steps closer and puts his hand, the one with the bent finger, over William’s on the wheel. “I have this watch,” he says. “Go below. Sleep. You have done enough today.”

So he goes below, unhampered by skirts. Lorna has fallen asleep again. His gown lies on the floor where he discarded it. He bends to pick it up and hang it from a peg in the wall. That gown has been a place of safety, but he doubts he will be allowed its comfort again soon. A place without judgment, James promised. William wonders if that is possible and whether James has the force of will to create it here. It won’t be found in America, not as easily as James seems to think. New York, Boston, these places are not so far removed from the Old World. Nootka Sound is a different matter, one William refuses to think about. What use is a place without judgment that is also hardly a place at all, but just a howling wilderness? 

*

The cabin is lighter when he awakes, although the hatch is covered. He wishes he could stay here, safe and at peace, but he has duties, now.

In the main deck Lorna Delaney is sitting up, attended by the girl. The boy sits by Cholmondley. He looks up at William, his eyes huge in his thin face. William can see why. Cholmondley’s lips are drawn back in a rictus of suffering and his eyes are dull. “Go and find James,” William tells him. The child hesitates. “Go!” he says, sharply. 

The boy goes to a door on the other side of the deck and taps lightly. “He only came down half an hour ago,” says Lorna.

“He is dying.” William turns to her. “James may know if there are any drugs. Any laudanum to ease his way.”

“What?” James is behind him. “What is important enough to disturb me?”

The child flinches and steps away to Lorna’s cot.

William turns to face him. “He is dying, James. He is in agony. Are there any drugs? Any laudanum, at least?”

James goes to the ladder and climbs to the deck. “Atticus?” he shouts. “Were the doctor’s things put aboard?” William can’t hear the answer, but James comes back and goes to a corner of the cabin and brings out a leather case, thrusts it at William and retreats to his cabin. He’s hardly looked at Cholmondley.

Robert is back at his side with water in a mug and William opens the bag. Inside are bottles and pots. The bottle marked ‘Laudanum’ is mercifully large. How much is the correct dose? What is he trying to achieve? Simple ease, or easier passage? What would be the difference, Cholmondley is not coming back from where he has descended to. He adds several drops to the water, then several more, and kneels to raise the man’s head a little; trickles water into his mouth. In a short while, his face softens slightly. The child sits down. “I can stay with him, sir,” he says. It’s not something William is often called. 

There is still a little liquid in the mug. He approaches Lorna, holds it out to her. “Are you in pain?” 

“Yes,” she says, “a little.” 

The girl’s eyes widen greedily, but he hands it to Lorna. “There is a little left to ease your pain.” She accepts the mug and drinks.

He places the bottle back in the case, closes it and considers. Temptation in the way of the possibly weak and desperate. He picks up the case and crosses the room to James’ cabin. Knocks and enters without waiting.

James is on the cot, but he is not asleep. “What now, Godders?” he says, wearily. 

“This is not safe were it to be left unsecured. There are those among us who would not wait until they were hurt to have recourse to this.”

“No. Whores are always slaves to the laudanum,” says James.

“A place without judgment, you promised, James,” says William, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice. “Remember? But you are no doubt right. I have seen this too. No one will attempt to steal it from here, I think.” He sets it down and stands near the door, uncertain of his welcome.

James is staring at the ceiling, but turns his face to William.

“Ah, Godders. Will we survive? Can I keep this ship of fools on a right course?”

He holds out his hand, and as so many times before, William is compelled to take it, to sit on the bed with him. “I do not know, James,” he says. The sun is up but he feels weary to the bone. “We cannot know. Rest now,” he says. “You can do nothing without rest.”

“When I close my eyes I see them all, crowding close, accusing, shaking their fists at me. Stay with me, Billy?” he says. “Stay with me?”

William needs to piss, wants to step on deck and breathe pure air, but he stays seated, his hand clutched in James’, until he feels the grip slacken. Only then does he stand and leave the room quietly. 

Lorna and the girl look at him with curiosity. He doesn’t think his gown fooled the girl, but she hadn’t seen him well yesterday. Perhaps Lorna has spoken to her. William will not explain himself to her, he decides. But now his need to piss is pressing and he hurries up the hatchway ladder. 

The wind is steady, the air sparkling, the sunlight almost painful after the dim light below-decks. He squints and sees that the tall thin man is at the helm. He walks forward to where he will be hidden by the main mast, to leeward, and pisses over the side. God knows, that wouldn’t be allowed on a King’s ship, nor yet a Company vessel, but the relief is enormous.

The open sea is livelier than it seemed in the night, and he has to step carefully to keep his footing. He goes aft. The man at the helm raises a hand. “Mornin’,” he says. “Name’s Bill. French Bill.” His accent is pure Wapping.

“William Godfrey.”

“Ah,” says Bill. “Another William. Well, I’ve never been called William so we’ll get on fine, I suppose.” He gives William an appraising look. “Where were you yesterday? I never saw you at the dock.”

There is no avoiding this. “I was wearing a gown and a wig,” he says.

“Right, in disguise for your escape, were you?” says Bill, nodding sagely. “Very cunning.” And he lets it go.

“Shall I take a turn at the helm?” says William. 

“Keep her steady on this heading,” says Bill, indicating the compass, stepping aside from the wheel. He hovers behind William, apparently satisfying himself of his ability to keep the ship on her course. “You’ll do,” he says at last. There’s a grudging respect in his voice as he turns away.

William looks up at the sails. There’s only a modest, overnight amount of canvas aloft. He _can_ do this, keep the ship on her course, keep their strange company safely headed for whatever lies ahead; whatever James has chosen. The sun is in his eyes, the breeze at his back. He lets his thoughts drift.

“Sir!” The boy is tugging on his sleeve. “Sir! It’s Mr Cholmondley, sir!” There is a look of terror on his face. “Please come quick, sir!”

He cannot leave the helm unattended. “Find Bill or Atticus, child, to take over.”

The boy dashes off. His eyes have seen more than a boy’s should. He disappears down a hatch forward and re-emerges with Atticus following.

“Go!” says Atticus, taking the wheel.

“Sir!” There’s a desperate edge to the child’s voice, a sob trying to escape. 

The scene as William turns from the ladder below is pitiful. Cholmondley has half risen from his cot, his eyes staring wildly. Lorna is sitting up, the girl is pressed against the wall, horror on their faces; the child is at Cholmondley’s side. “Get Delaney,” William tells the girl as he reaches Cholmondley. 

“Mr Cholmondley?” he says, “sir? Will you not lie down, sir?” His hands are not as wounded as the rest of his body and William grasps them.

“What?” says James at his back. “Cholmondley?” his voice softens.

Cholmondley lies back. “I'm sorry, Delaney,” he whispers. “I hope …” his voice fades and he closes his eyes. “I hope you are … satisfied.”

“With you? Yes.” James clears his throat. “Yes, Cholmondley. Thank you. I am sorry.”

“I should have liked … to see America,” Cholmondley sighs. The lines of his face ease. There is no sound other than the rushing of the water and the creak of the ship and no one moves for what seems minutes, until Cholmondley’s breath leaves him in a rattle. His hands are a weight in William’s.

“He is gone, I think, James.”

“Yes.” James clears his threat again. “He did well.”

A strangled sound escapes the boy. “Robert?” says James. “Come here, boy.” The child turns to him. “I don’t bite,” he says, pulling the boy closer, patting his back awkwardly. “He was a clever man,” says James. Robert makes no sound now, but his shoulders are shaking. 

William sets Cholmondley’s hands down, crosses them on his breast. The girl is sobbing, perhaps more from shock than sorrow. “Hush now,” says Lorna. Her voice is soft and tired.

“Come,” says James, leading the boy to the ladder. “Come away now.” 

William gets to his feet and turns to Lorna. “Mrs Delaney? Can I fetch you anything?”

“I should like a cup of tea,” she says, “I wonder if there is any tea?”

William is suddenly, painfully aware that none of them has eaten or probably drunk anything other than water since yesterday. Since breakfast yesterday. In another world, another age, it seems. Their departure was so hasty, he has no idea what provisions are aboard. 

“I shall go and find out,” he says. There is another problem, perhaps more pressing, but how to address it? “Ma’am?” he says, “have you, ah … have you …?”

“Attended to the necessities?” She almost laughs. 

William can feel himself blushing. “Yes. James said there is a cabin for you. One for …?” He tips his head towards the girl.

“Pearl,” she says, sniffing. “Oh sir, I should also like a cup of tea.”

He’s not sure why they are both looking to him to provide the comforts they desire. He’s as much out of place here as they are, but somehow they appear to think he will look after them. He sighs and moves towards the ladder. “Have you been up on deck?” he says to Pearl. “Come and breathe fresh air.” 

She glances at Lorna. “Go,” says Lorna. 

William lets her go up first. He turns back to Lorna. “You would surely wish to come up too? Not stay here, with …” he lets his voice trail off. She knows what he means. “Can you get up?” 

“I don’t know,” she says. “Where are my clothes?” 

He finds them in a heap and takes them to her. He offers her his hands and she stands with some difficulty, clings to his arm. She sways and almost falls. Her shift is stiff with blood and she is not wearing her stays. He turns his eyes away and braces himself against the rolling of the deck to take her weight. 

“Godders?” James is at the foot of the ladder, hesitant. “Lorna?”

“She needs to get away from this room,” says William. He can hear the tension in his own voice. “I shall take you to my cabin,” he says. “Come, Mrs Delaney.” He slips his arm around her waist and leads her across to his door. She slumps on the edge of the cot. Her wound has begun to ooze blood again. 

“James?” he raises his voice. “Fetch Cholmondley’s case.” There are salves in the case. He leaves Lorna and picks up his own bag. He has things he won’t need anymore. A petticoat he can tear up for bandages. He feels a pang of … not regret, exactly, as he rips away the lace and tears a strip from the bottom. The action reminds him forcefully of tearing another garment, so long ago, for another bandage. He had felt just as inadequate to the task then, as a boy. 

“Here.” James ducks through the low door and puts the medical case on the bed. 

“Thank you. Water please.” He doesn’t look at James to see the effect his words of command are having. 

Lorna’s head is hanging. “Mrs Delaney? I want to clean the wound and bandage it. Apply a salve. We have Mr Cholmondley’s drugs here.” She nods. James returns and thrusts a small basin of water at him. He hovers in the doorway. 

“James,” says William, “you are blocking the light.” James steps back and William turns to Lorna. “Mrs Delaney? It would be better to be rid of this shift, but … Shall I fetch Pearl?” 

She sighs. “Yes, if you would rather. I don’t care anymore.” 

“Well,” he says, “if I tear it here, carefully, perhaps …” He has never seen a woman in such a state of undress. “Will you help me?” he says. She nods, so he carefully tears the fabric at her shoulder, peels it down, leaving her breast covered but exposing the wound. In the slightly better light he can see that it is as he hoped, a long gash, the path of the musket ball. He carefully bathes the area, trying to remove more dried and fresh blood. She hisses but doesn’t flinch, holding the torn shift in place. When it is clean, he opens the case and looks through the supplies. 

“Try this.” James has returned and thrusts a bottle of brandy at him. “It will sting but it may kill infection.” 

“Thank you, James. Fetch Pearl, please,” he says.

“Mrs Delaney, I shall bathe the area in alcohol, and ask Pearl to bandage it, if I may?”

“Yes,” she says, “of course.” Her voice is firmer. “I am sorry, to discomfort you. Forgive me.”

He pours brandy onto a folded strip of cloth and holds it to her wound. She gasps. “Keep that in place. Here is a bandage. Here is Pearl,” he says as she steps through the door. “Bandage Mrs Delaney and help her into a fresh shift,” he says to her. He takes one of his own out. 

James is standing near the door when he steps back out. “Thank you, Godders,” he says.

“They want tea,” says William. “So do I. And food.” His voice is sharp. He is so weary, even though the day is not old.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

They consign Cholmondley’s body to the waves as the sun declines. Atticus has sewed him into a sailcloth shroud and speaks a few words, half-remembered from earlier days at sea. 

“He was a clever man,” says James, again, as he and Bill tip the plank to slide the body over the side. Pearl, who didn't even know him, sobs wildly. Lorna, who did, presses her lips together in a hard line and braces herself against the heaving of the deck. The boy Robert clings to the side and stares after the body for a long time.

It is the first time the whole ship’s company have been together in one place. Four strong men, two women, a boy — and William. It only serves to make the folly of their enterprise all the clearer. Are they a ship of fools, in thrall to a madman? Perhaps, but what choice did they have, once they’d answered James’ call? All they have left, on this ship “Good Hope”, is hope.

Their situation is clearer now. James says he demanded a ship provisioned for 15, for two months. It’s hard to tell whether Sir Stuart honoured that, but they are fewer, and their journey is shorter. There is at least tea. James had snorted in apparent amusement when they found it, but he had drunk a cup when Atticus fired the stove and brewed a pot. 

They have been fortunate with the wind, but their course, east at first, is now south-west, which means harder sailing. Robert seems to have a boy’s natural ability in the rigging, so the dreaded moment has not yet arrived for William. He takes his turn at the wheel, the lessons returning, dimly at first and then more clearly — the angle of the breeze, the set of the sails, the direction of the ship. He had kept that paper, covered with his childish handwriting and James’ bolder hand, until it fell apart at the creases, but he can see it even now.

“How many days?” he asks James, as they stand at the stern in the dusk, watching the wake, that path back to where they have come from.

“I don’t know, Godders. Several. But not so many. Pray for an easy passage, kind winds.”

“I don’t pray. Why would I pray? To whom, for what? I will hope. And trust.”

James laughs. “Don’t you know by now I am not to be trusted? Look where that has got you.”

“Away from London, where there were only lies and secrets and hiding.”

James turns to look at him. “You’re not hiding now, are you? I refuse. I have kept secrets, but I will not apologise. Not now.”

They stand together and watch the water, smooth and grey. 

The girl, Pearl, has only been on deck reluctantly, preferring to remain in her cabin, but now she comes towards them, unsteadily, holding onto the ship’s side to keep her balance.

“I can cook, you know,” she says. The wind is whipping her curls about and she holds them back with her hand. “I can do that. If you would like?”

William wonders how old she is, what her life was like before. What she will do now that she has been dragged into this enterprise, transported to the other side of the world with as little of her old life as any prisoner.

“Cook, eh?” says James, “Well, there is no room here for anyone to be idle.” He looks to the helm, where Atticus is taking his turn. He raises his voice: “Atticus, Pearl wants to cook.”

“Thank God,” says Atticus.

“Well,” says James, “Take her to the galley. You will want to save your dress,” he says to Pearl.

“I have no other,” she says, shrugging. 

“Well then.” He waves her off and takes over the helm from Atticus. “Go and cook.”

*

She is not a good cook, with what they have aboard. But the food is hot, and there is more tea. Afterwards, Bill has the helm and the women are in their cabins. 

“You should sleep,” says James. “How much rest have you had, Billy?”

He can always overthrow William utterly when he’s like this — soft. The tension of the last days, the terror of having to write his account, of fearing being found out, of losing everything, of losing James himself, threaten to overwhelm him. 

“Too little, since you found me,” he says. James bends towards him to catch what he’s saying, almost too quietly to be heard.

“Ah, Billy,” he says. “I’m a monster. Go below. Sleep.”

And now, suddenly, he can almost not stand up. He turns for the hatchway, stumbles to his cabin. His gown is still swaying on the peg, like the skin of another life. He lies on the cot and lets sleep carry every fear away, even if only for a short while.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

The ship and its company settle into a quiet rhythm as they all begin to find their places in James’ world. Their good fortune continues to hold and the weather remains fair, the Good Hope sailing calmly over a smooth blue sea.

Atticus and Bill assert a natural authority in sailing the vessel, directing even James into the rigging to trim and reef the sails as they head southwest for the Azores and James’ hoped-for meeting. Robert appears to be shedding the sadness of losing Cholmondley, the depth of which William cannot quite account for; and shows a sure-footedness among the ropes that William wishes he had possessed as a schoolboy. He looks up to James but seems wary of him. Pearl has proved a quick learner with the supplies granted by the Company, typical naval rations of salt pork and beef and biscuit, still reasonably fresh, as well as porridge and potatoes. And tea, always tea. Lorna is stronger, and comes on deck to gaze at the sea from a seat just in front of the main mast, out of the way. Pearl sits with her and they speak quietly.

But what is William’s position, now the immediate crisis, which seemed to turn them all towards him, has passed? He takes the helm, hauls on whatever rope he is directed to. His hands, as he promised James, are hardening, not without pain. He aches, his face is red from the sun, his shirt beginning to be filthy. 

They take turns on watch or at the helm. He hardly sees James for hours at a time, although he is always aware of where he is, on deck, or in his cabin. 

*

As he descends the ladder after a turn at the helm, James steps out of his cabin. He is not needed on deck yet. “Godders?” he says, “would you …?” He ducks back through the door, obliging William to follow. The room is dim and close. James turns away and pulls his shirt off. His body is covered with heavy, black tattoos, unlike anything William has ever seen. But among these marks are others, less permanent, more painful. Yellowing bruises, healing cuts and abrasions. William cannot help the low gasp that escapes him. 

“When, James?”

“The Tower. I resisted them.”

William steps closer, extends a hand, but does not touch. “Why did you not say?”

“It was only pain. But there is one place …” He reaches behind himself and catches William’s hand, places it low on his back where there is a deeper cut. Leaning nearer, William sees that it is an angry red.

“James, did you not know you could ask me? You had no need to conceal this … from me.”

“How bad is it?”

He runs his fingers lightly across it. It feels warm to the touch. James hisses, but doesn't flinch away. 

“Will you let me clean it? Dress it?”

James nods. “Christ, I'm so tired. I thought it was nothing, but …”

“You were beaten? Tortured? And you thought it was nothing? For God’s sake, James!” He knows his voice is too sharp, but the shock of seeing evidence of what James endured has undone his control. 

“Lie down now. I will fetch water and bandages.” He forces his tone calmer. James lies on the cot on his stomach, and William lets his hand linger briefly on his shoulder. 

He goes to his cabin, retrieves the torn petticoat and tears off more strips. Fetching a basin of hot water from the galley, he returns to James’ cabin, where he has apparently dropped into a doze. He places his hand on his shoulder again. “James?” James sighs and opens his eyes. 

“I’ll clean it now.” He sets the basin on the floor and sits on the bed. The space is narrow and his hip is pressed to James’. He closes his eyes briefly to steady himself; dips one of the cloth strips in the water and starts to clean the wound. There is old blood clinging to its edges. He glances at James’ face, he has his lip caught between his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says. James shakes his head, but doesn't speak. 

When the wound is clean, he pushes the basin away with his foot. “Cholmondley’s case?” he says.

“Under the cot.”

He gets down on his knees and reaches for it. The pots are not labelled, but he selects one with a thick white salve that smells of herbs, reminding him of childhood, and spreads some on the wound, hoping it is right. “James? Will you sit up so I can bandage this?” He wraps the bandage securely, reaching around James’ torso, keeping his head bowed so the heat in his face is hidden.

“What is this?” says James, catching hold of the fabric.

“Something I no longer have use for,” says William. He ties the ends, lets his hands linger very briefly.

“Thank you, Godders.” James lies down, looking up at William. “Your hands were always skilled.”

William has to look away, he fixes his eyes on the basin of now-pink water, sloshing with the roll of the ship. “Hush now,” he says. His hand is on the bed. He moves it so he is touching James’ hip. Silence stretches between them.

He remains sitting there, listening to James breathe, and to his own hammering heart, and to the sounds of the ship itself, for what seems hours before he slips out. 

Next time someone is needed in the rigging, it will not be James who goes aloft. He will conquer his fear and take his place.

His resolve is tested all too soon when the breeze freshens and Atticus calls “All hands to reduce sail”. James has not come back on deck. In answer to Atticus’ inquiring look, William says: “Do not disturb him. I will go.”

“You sure?” Atticus is not unkind, and he is right to ask.

“I’ve never done it at sea, but I have learnt. Long ago. I will go.”

“Alright mate, we have to take up the mains’l. Mind your step.”

William places his hands on the rungs of the ratline to leeward, the boy is climbing to windward. He hears James’ long-ago voice in his head: “The trick is not to look down”, as he steps onto the fragile rope foothold and starts to climb. It had been terrifying to his child-self in the shed. Here the heaving of the ship is magnified the higher he climbs and he almost freezes, but forces himself upwards. 

Robert is waiting on the yard on the other side of the great main mast. “Alright, sir?” he says. William nods. “Just watch me, sir.” And he shuffles out along the line under the yard, his arms over the wooden beam itself, so he can reef the sail as it is hauled up to half its depth. 

The mast swings slowly through an arc from side to side as the ship rolls on the increasing swell. “Don’t look down,” he tells himself. “You can do it.” He feels sick to his stomach, though. 

The child is back at the mast. “Now you, sir,” he says. “Place your foot just there. It’s not so bad, sir. I thought I’d fall too, sir, at first.” He doesn't quite smile at William, he is too serious for that, but his voice is coaxing. William places his foot where he is shown and flings his arms over the yard. “There, sir, now you move sideways.” William shuffles as directed, as the yard gives a sickening lurch. He hopes the boy cannot hear his panicked gasp above the sound of the wind. “Now, sir, Bill hauls that line and the sail rises. Now you secure it. There, sir. And there. And you return to the mast.” 

William looks out across the grey and heaving sea. They are all alone in the world, it seems. He shuffles back to the mast and starts the long climb down on shaking legs. Back on the deck, he leans against the solid tree. 

“Not so bad,” says Atticus from the helm.

“No,” says William when he has caught his breath. He is surprised that his stomach is no longer heaving. He goes below as soon as he can walk steadily, and lies upon his cot, looking at his gown, still swaying on the peg.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

James was always skilled at the mathematics of sailing, but making landfall on a small island, in a ship with hardly enough crew, is a puzzle that threatens to defeat him. The chartroom does not contain a detailed chart of their direction to the Azores. James neither requested it, not would Sir Stuart have provided such a thing. Still, the archipelago is depicted on more general charts and he and Atticus pore over them for hours as the days pass. James has been sure to keep his watch wound, and each day at noon he takes the angle of the sun and notes Good Hope’s position. William is not included in his conferences, but he is privy to James’ concerns.

James speaks of his fears to no one else, but he is less guarded when William is alone with him in his cabin.

“I have never done this, Godders,” he says as William winds a fresh bandage over the wound, which is less angry, but not yet healed. “I know how to plot a course, but how to sail it, that may defeat me.”

The shock of hearing James confess doubt and uncertainty at his own abilities is profound; he can't respond directly.

“Making landfall requires manoeuvring, does it not? Will we be able to manage with so few?”

“Christ, I don’t know! Maybe. Every man on the yards, the women hauling …”

“But Lorna cannot, she can barely raise her arm, James.”

“Well then, Lorna at the helm.” 

The bandaging done, they sit on James’ cot, not touching, but close.

“I'm so tired, Billy, of always being in charge. There was a time, in Africa, when I was not in charge. Not even of myself. Sometimes I long for that.” He laughs, mirthlessly. “Not often.”

He’s staring at the floor. William allows himself to gaze at his profile, the strong, straight nose, the long lashes cast down, his mouth, not completely hidden by the beard, the softness he loved at school still there. He does not give in often to this, but he cannot wish his feelings away. He never could, never has, even when James was a dead man. 

James looks up then, but William does not lower his gaze. “Ah, Godders. Few understand me, but I think you do, eh. You always did. Even sometimes when you were my timid little fag at Addiscombe.”

“I try, James.” William’s voice is as firm as he can make it, even though his heart is pounding. 

“I thought she understood me.” William does not ask who James is recalling. “I thought … I do not know what I thought. We were children. It was not the same afterwards. She was ashamed. I refuse to be ashamed.” He has not looked away, his eyes fierce. “You must not be ashamed, Billy.”

“It is not so easy, for me, James.” His voice is unsteady, now. “I want to believe that there can be a place without judgment, but I have never seen that. Perhaps you have, in Africa?”

“It was different there. No one cared about … that. I was not the man I am here. I was hardly civilised.” 

William does not know how to respond to that either, so he says nothing and they sit in silence. His thoughts drift to the home he will never see again. A place almost without judgment, hiding in a wider world of judgment and condemnation and fear of discovery. Every day in Leadenhall there had been the terror of discovery. It is only in this outlaw place, this place outside society, all of them condemned men, that he has gained the courage not to care.

Finally he rouses himself. “I should go and see if Mrs Delaney needs anything.”

“You are good to all of us,” says James, taking his hand. William stands up, but he doesn’t pull away until James lets him go.

Lorna is in her cabin, sitting on the cot stitching the shift he had to tear. The bloodstains have not washed out completely. She looks up. “My doctor,” she says.

“How is the wound?” he says. 

“Better. I think. Pearl dressed it. I hardly feel it.”

“I’m not any sort of doctor. Merely a clerk.”

“Why you, William, why you?”

“James believed I would do whatever he asked. He was right.”

“Sometimes I wish I had never met any Delaney,” she says. “But we have to put up with it, I suppose.”

She stabs her needle viciously into the cloth. “I hate sewing! I was never good at being the sort of woman they want you to be.”

“We are both here because we are bad at being who they want us to be, I think,” says William.

She looks sharply at him. “Of course,” she says. “Neither of us bows down. Neither does he.”

Now is the time. “Mrs Delaney,” he says, “You know we are trying to make landfall on a speck of land? James has business in the Azores. We are not headed to America. Not yet, at least.”

“Yes, yes,” she says, “nothing is ever straight forward. He always has some secret enterprise. Not America, but the Americans.” 

“And making landfall in the Azores will be difficult. With a crew such as ours.”

“I gathered as much,” she says. 

“He needs you on deck. He needs your … participation.”

“Did he tell you to tell me this? Why would he not speak for himself?”

“He did not, ma’am.” He is uncertain about revealing this. “He is so tired. He was tortured, injured, more than you know. He would not wish anyone to know. But without you, we will fail, Mrs Delaney. You and Pearl.”

“Well,” she says, “I’ve done everything he asked, since the first time I saw him. Damn him!” 

“Will Pearl assist?”

“You know she has nothing but the clothes she came aboard in? Not a living soul who cares for her anymore, since her mistress was cut down.”

“Yes,” he says. “But she is young, strong. She may be able to haul upon a rope. You cannot, ma’am, I think, with your wound. He will ask something else of you.” 

“And I will answer.” She sighs and turns back to her hated sewing as he leaves the cabin.

The next along is Pearl’s and he taps on the door. “Miss?” he says.

“Miss?” She laughs. “Thank you, but I am just Pearl. Am I needed?”

“Not at this minute. But … Pearl, you will be needed to help sail the ship as we try to enter the harbour on the island we are headed for.”

“Not America?”

“Not yet. An island, in a day or two, I think.”

“Sail the ship? Me?” 

“Well yes, assist. Haul upon a rope. It would be well to practise before. Will you do that? Atticus or Bill will show you.”

“What choice have I? I have done everything they asked. And now I am far from home, without anything of my own.” 

“Thank you. We all have done all he asked,” he says. “Nothing at all of your own?”

“Only the clothes I stand up in!” Her voice rises, a bit petulantly. “One gown, sir!”

William comes to a decision, inevitable perhaps.

“You know I have things I no longer need?”

She nods. “I saw you, when we came aboard.”

“Well, yes. I have a gown … and some other things ... that may be of use. Can you sew? They would not fit you. And the style is a little … old-fashioned.”

He had not known how hard this would be. Offering to give away this part of himself. Fleeing the house, he had tried so hard to take his things, but they are useless to him now, in the life he may lead in future.

“I can sew. But I have no thread, no needles.” 

“I think Mrs Delaney may have.”

“Then, thank you, sir.” She smiles at him. Her hair has fallen out of its ringlets and she has tied it off her face, which is of course plain and unpainted. She is very young and rather pretty under her exhaustion.

“I will bring them to you then.” He returns her smile. An effort, but it may be the first time he has smiled in days.

In his own cabin, he takes the gown down from the peg and sits on the bed holding it, his face buried in the cloth, for a long while. He sees himself in it, laughing at the house, admiring himself in the glass, talking to men. And then he stands up and lays it down. Rummages in his bag for the other things. He sets the torn petticoat aside; he may need that again. He folds everything together and hugs the bundle to his chest. Stepping out of his cabin, he is caught by James, emerging from his own cabin. He tips his chin up and meets James’ eyes. James nods, he has seen and understood, and that is in itself a reward William will accept. 

Pearl has left her cabin, and William lays the bundle on the bed, his hand lingering on it for a minute. Then he turns and crosses to the hatchway and goes up on deck, where the wind tugs his hair and cuts through his shirt and clears his head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter six**

At the helm, Atticus says: “It’s as if he’s controlling the weather, the wind. It should be harder sailing. It always is, into the teeth of the wind, beating to and fro, night and day, making sail, reducing sail, putting the ship about, again and again. We would not succeed. We would be blown back. But we are not. It is almost,” he drops his voice, crosses himself, “almost as if the wind answers to him.” He laughs. “Hark at me,” he says, shaking his head. Bill is looking at him, shocked. William, at the stern rail, looks out at the wake, straight and true, the breeze in his face. He knows, from lessons dimly remembered, that what Atticus says is so. The wind should not be thus, here.

Later, in James’ cabin, he says: “Atticus thinks you control the wind.”

“Perhaps I do,” says James. “My mind does things I cannot explain. Perhaps it does control the wind, quiet the waves. It is well that Atticus thinks so. Sailors are slaves to superstition.”

His eyes hold a challenge. William meets it. “Be careful, James. Do not push them too far.” 

James laughs. “A bit of fear can make men do things only love would, otherwise.” 

William’s breath catches. “I don’t fear you,” he says, not dropping his eyes.

“No, you don’t, do you, Godders.” James brushes past him, through the door and up the ladder. William remains in the cabin, with a sense of having cast off his moorings for good. 

*

William comes on deck as James is taking the noon observation. He lowers the sextant with a look of satisfaction and says to Atticus, at the helm again: “We may make landfall tomorrow. If this breeze holds.” 

“It’ll hold.” 

James turns away and looks up into the rigging. The huge mainsail is filled and pulling. The breeze is steady from dead aft, the sails have not had to be shifted this day. William is not superstitious, but even he wonders if what James said could be true. He saw him in the woods, muttering strange incantations. 

Lorna and Pearl are sitting at the main mast, sheltered by its girth from some of the breeze. He sees with a twinge of regret that they are stitching his gown into something more suited to the slight figure of the girl. The colour will not suit her pale skin and hair as well as it suited him, when he wore it, in his own room, without a wig, its soft gold contrasting with his darkness. He closes his eyes to revisit the image, and hide it away. He may never wear a gown again, and truthfully, he is not certain he regrets that, but he does regret the loss of beauty and softness. Everything here is rough, and dark. His face reddened from the sun and the wind, the salty air; his hands roughened by the ropes; his clothes sombre and dirty.

Pearl glances up and sees him watching. She smiles. William hopes his answering smile is not too sad.

Robert, with an agile child’s relish for larking in the rigging, is aloft, seated on the main yard, leaning against the mast, swinging his feet.

“Oi!” he suddenly calls down. “There’s something over there!” He scrambles up and shades his eyes with a hand. Every eye on deck is looking up now.

“What? What do you see, boy?” calls Atticus.

“A bump.”

“A bump? Land? You spy land?” Atticus looks ready to climb himself, but it is James who springs into the rigging, racing up to where Robert is. William tips his head back to see. 

“Damn, boy, you have sharp eyes,” says James. He calls down: “Godders, there is a spyglass in my cabin, fetch it up, would you?”

James knows how much he hates climbing the rigging. William goes below to fetch the glass. He tucks it into his waistband and begins to climb. The sea is calm and with the breeze from aft the ship is steady. As he nears the yard, James reaches his hand down and helps him up the last step. He is breathing hard, not from exertion so much as nerves and excitement. James takes the glass and puts it to his eye. 

“There’s your ‘bump’,” he says. “Land. The island.”

“How far?” says William. He’s looking in the direction and fancies he can see the bump Robert spotted. 

“A day’s sail? I don’t know. I hope so. Would you like to see?”

“Let Robert look.”

James hands the glass to the boy and shows him how to focus it.

“Oh!” he says. “It’s a mountain in the sea.”

“So it is. If only we can reach it and not be blown off course. It is a small target.”

James hands the glass to William, who is still clinging to the mast. There is a dare in James’ eyes, so William takes it and puts it to his eye. The bump springs into focus, and he feels James’ hand on his elbow, steadying. He lowers the glass and hands it back to James. “Thank you,” he says, and begins to descend, his heart pounding.

The women are looking up. “Land?” says Lorna. “The island?”

“Yes,” he says as James leaps the final step down.

“Yes!” says James. He walks aft to the helm. William stays where he is, at the foot of the mast, until James calls: “Godders?” He goes to the helm. “Take the wheel while Atticus and I consult the chart?”

He takes the spokes, checks the heading, and James and Atticus disappear down the hatchway. Bill comes over. “He’ll want extra sail, no doubt. To get us there now we are close.”

“How much more have we?” says William. “Can so few sail her with more canvas?”

“That I don’t know. He knows, I suppose.”

They all seem to have complete faith in James. He wishes he did. He doesn’t doubt James’ skill, nor his conviction, but not even the most skilled sailor can bring a ship into harbour with too few crew. And they don’t have a proper chart of the approach. But there is nothing he can do except what he is told.

James and Atticus come back on deck and Lorna comes aft. “James, how will we enter this harbour? Can you sail this ship in unknown waters?”

James turns to her. “If everyone does their part, we may succeed.”

“If we do as we are told?” She raises her chin, fight in her eyes.

“Yes, as you are told.” James turns away from her, towards William. He sees the look that crosses her face, disappointment, and something nastier. She has been grateful to him when she was in need of his help, but she may be envious. Perhaps she wants another Delaney. Perhaps James wants her. But not now, at least.

“Approaching this harbour will take all of our skill. I was a passenger on a ship that called here, with a proper crew. Atticus has called here, long ago. We don’t have a proper chart, the Company saw to that.” He tugs at his hair. “Damn them! We _will_ succeed. They can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Of course, they are simply the means by which James will achieve his purpose. Tools to his hand, not collaborators, and to think otherwise is to risk everything. But William has already risked everything.

James and Atticus have apparently determined a course, and Atticus takes the helm, Bill standing by to trim the sails. Lorna withdraws, back to her place at the mast, out of James’ way, a discontented look on her face as she resumes stitching. 

“Come forward with me, Godders?” says James. They pass the fourth man, one of Atticus’ crew, as they walk towards the bow. He is somehow never on deck when William is. 

“Filthy molly,” he mutters.

James rounds on him. “What did you say?”

The man lifts his chin defiantly: “Molly!” he spits. “I seen that one, in a dress. Filthy sodomite!”

James grabs him by the collar of his shirt. “You have seen what happens to those who displease me? I’d do it again, if I didn't need both your hands to help me get to my goal.” He pushes him away. 

The man staggers back, scowling. “Fuck you, Delaney!” 

James hits him, backhanded, and strides away. William follows, his face burning, his heart unsteady. In the bow, he reaches for James’ arm. “James! That was foolish!”

“I will not have such disrespect on my ship!”

“I am used to it.”

“No more, Billy, no more! He’s on my ship, he follows my rules.” James’ eyes are hard. 

“Do not make an enemy here, James. He may be dangerous. Do you not think I am inured to such insults?”

James’ face softens. “Ah, Billy,” he says, reaching for William’s hand. Neither of them says anything and they stand looking out ahead, to whatever the next days may bring. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter seven**

No one leaves the deck as the island looms larger on the horizon, the bump becoming a mountain clothed with sparse vegetation and then with buildings at its foot. Robert has to be coaxed down to eat and James is in the rigging too as his goal comes closer and closer.

William cannot decide if he is glad to arrive at this next stop along the journey to a new life, promised but not completely imagined. James has given no sign of what he expects from him when they arrive. 

Lorna approaches as he stands near the bow, looking out ahead, glancing up at the sails, back to where James sits on the main yard, his heart clenching at how precarious he looks up there, how young from a distance that hides his scars, the lines of care on his face.

“What will you do when we arrive?” she says. 

“Whatever I am asked to.”

“You’ll keep following him blindly?”

“I have made my choice. I cannot go back. To what? I should be arrested.”

She looks at him, eyes narrowed in speculation. “No, that’s not why you follow him.”

“I don’t follow him blindly. I have known James a long time. He has not treated me ill yet.”

She snorts. “Not yet. I sometimes wish I had never met him. Or his father. And yet, here I am, sailing across the sea to a wilderness.”

“New York is hardly a wilderness!” William cannot keep the sharpness from his tone. They have all given up their previous lives, but Lorna has the resources to make a new life in the New World. “Come, Mrs Delaney, don’t despair yet,” he says, turning away to end the conversation.

He walks aft. Pearl is with Bill, being shown how to haul on a rope. She is laughing up at him and he looks somewhat stunned. 

He is about to go below when James calls down: “Come up and see, Godders.”

Atticus and his man, at the helm, stare as he begins to climb. It does get easier every time. James moves out along the yard to accommodate him and hands him the glass. “See there, Godders!” 

The buildings resolve, there are ships at anchor in the harbour. A real place, not just an idea.

“How difficult is the approach?” 

“Not too difficult, I think. It is not an easy anchorage in the offing, though, too steep, and we would not be able to raise the anchor, too few to turn the capstan.” James sounds tired. “I will need more men, to sail on.” 

William keeps the glass at his eye, listening to James, aware of his solidity, his heat, at his side. They are not hidden, here, but it feels intimate and private. 

“Will you find them?” he says.

“I am not a madman, here. Just a ship owner bound for America. Under an American flag. With American friends.”

“Yes, but we are English. There is no escaping that.” 

“Do you think sailors in search of a ship care about that? I _will_ crew this ship and we will sail it to America.”

William lowers the glass and turns to face James. “And then? Will Nootka be worth what it was to the Company when we arrive on the opposite side of a vast land?”

James reaches for the glass, his hand closing on William’s. “I don’t know.”

He raises the glass to his eye once again. William stays where he is, silent, the wind tugging his hair.

“I don’t know, Billy,” James says again, more softly. It should not comfort him that the man he has chosen to follow does not know how to reach his goal, but it does, somehow. The less certain James is, the more he needs the rest of them. The more he needs William.

He would like to stay up here, in the wind and the light, with James, but all too soon, Atticus calls up and James is needed on deck. William has to descend first, and he goes straight below. 

He is sitting on his cot when there is a tap at the door. “Come in,” he says, straightening his shoulders. The boy, Robert, opens the door and stands on the threshold. “Sir?” he says. 

“Yes, what is it?”

The child comes into the room, closing the door behind him. He stands in the tiny space, his hands behind his back. “Sir?” he says again, “What will happen to us when we arrive? Where is he taking us?”

He is so young, yet so old. He has seen too much, been made to do too much. William doesn’t know exactly who he is, although clearly he means something to James.

“James needs to meet with someone on the island. It is important to our journey, I think.” The boy nods.

“You know we are trying to sail to America?”

“Yes sir, Mr Cholmondley told me, sir. He has gunpowder to sell there. I helped Mr Cholmondley make it.”

He raises his chin, a glint of pride in his eyes. 

“You knew Mr Cholmondley a long time?”

“No, sir. Only a short time. He was kind to me, though. I wasn’t so scared. I stirred and stirred.”

The child isn’t making much sense, but William lets him talk, the most he has heard him say since they began this voyage.

“It was better than shovelling horse shit.”

“You helped make the gunpowder?”

“Yes, he told me to. I helped when they took it to London, too. I fooled the soldier.”

“Well, Robert, you have done what was asked of you. I don’t know what will happen on the island. I don’t know what will happen when we sail to America. I don’t know what he wants of us. But I am here. You are here. Mrs Delaney is here. We will keep doing what he asks, won't we?”

He holds out his hand to the child. He steps closer and sits on the bed. They sit listening to the water rushing along the hull, the planks creaking.

“I like being at sea,” says Robert, and lapses into silence again. Finally, he stands up. “Thank you, sir.” 

William stands too and follows him back on deck. 

The island is much closer, the ships at anchor discernable even without the glass. James is at the helm with Atticus; the hostile man, whose name William does not know, lounging with Bill at the stern rail. Lorna and Pearl are in their usual position under the main mast. Robert scrambles up the rigging again. And William lingers near the hatchway, irresolute. Much as he reassures the others, he is still uncertain of his own position. James looks up and sees him, but he makes no gesture. So William waits.

Finally, James leaves Atticus and comes over to William. “Godders,” he says, low, “come below with me.”

In his cabin he says: “We need to show a signal.”

“To whom?” 

“The Americans.” His coat is hung on a peg and he reaches into a pocket. “Lorna got me this,” he says, bringing out a folded paper. “Their secret codes. Thank God this was a properly fitted Company ship with a complete set of flags.” He steps back out of the door, pushing past William, the brush of his arm, his chest, sends a shiver through him. There is no need for James to share this.

The signal flags are in a locker in the chartroom. James spreads the paper on the table, smoothing it down, his bent finger dragging across the writing. He looks up at William. “If only they have a lookout,” he says. There is strain in his eyes.

*

The sun is dipping behind the island as they come close enough to see people moving about on the quay and in the town. A boat pushes off, a man rowing and another, straight backed and formally dressed, looking fixedly at Good Hope.

William has remained at the port rail, but now Atticus calls: “Reduce sail!” and he turns to see where he will be needed. He passes James as he walks aft. He is excited, half wild.

“At last!” says James.

William stands by the line he’s been told to haul on, looking up into the rigging where Robert and Bill are reefing the mainsail. James and the hostile man are on the foreyard, Atticus at the helm. He looks across the deck to where Pearl stands ready to haul. She is biting her lip, frowning in determination. Less than a week has turned them into sailors. 

The sails are reduced, the ship slows and rocks gently, the boat comes alongside. The formally dressed man stands up, staggering slightly as the boat rises and falls on the small swell. “Who is the master of this ship?” he calls. His eyes widen as James descends from the rigging and walks to the side.

“I am.”

“I have been sent … that is, we noted your flags, your signal.”

Everyone on deck is listening.

“I have been sent to take you ashore, sir.”

“Ha!” James exclaims, triumphant.

William goes below, to James’ cabin, unasked, and fetches his coat. As he hands it to James, he tries to tell him, wordlessly, to take care. James nods, evidently understanding. He puts it on, rubs his hand across his hair and turns to descend the ladder Bill has lowered to the boat. William watches his face, and stares after the retreating boat, James’ back rigid as they are rowed away. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter eight**

Good Hope is almost motionless, a small amount of sail balancing the current and the tide, as evening descends without James returning. Atticus at the helm looks worn, and William approaches to offer to take over. 

The other man is standing by. William gathers his self-composure to say: “I don’t believe we have been introduced, sir?” formal as if they were in a drawing room.

The man, an earring in his ear, his shirt filthy, scowls, but mutters: “George Brown.”

“I am William Godfrey, Mr Brown.” Brown grunts and turns away. 

“George!” says Atticus. “Don’t mind him,” he says to William.

William swallows his surprise. “Would you like me to take a turn at the helm. You look weary.” 

“It is hard work, keeping her steady.”

“Oh, you think I might not be able?”

“Well,” says Atticus, “It is sailor’s work.”

“Ah,” says William. “I understand. You can hardly stand all night at the helm, though.”

“No. Bill and George can take their turns. But be ready to adjust the sails.” He turns to look at William. “Don’t mind, George,” he says again. 

“Mind him? No,” says William, but he knows his face gave him away, and he wonders how much Atticus knows of James’ encounter with Brown earlier, whether he saw it, or whether Brown has complained. He hopes it doesn’t mean a sort of mutiny. Among a crew such as this, it would be disastrous. And James is not always present to assert his authority and extend his protection. How foolish to think that this could be a place without judgment. Brown had obviously avoided him from a sense of revulsion, until he could not do so any longer. William suddenly feels ill, and exhausted, and walks away, towards the bow. 

The breeze is gentle, and the lights of the town shine faintly from the island. _What is James doing? Has he succeeded in his aim; put his plan in motion?_ He stands there a long time, until Pearl comes forward, touches his arm. “Would you not like to eat something?” she says.

It has been hours, all day, since he ate a ship’s biscuit for breakfast. He feels calmer now. “Thank you, I will come below,” he says.

They have only been at sea a week, and already the food is monotonous —boiled potatoes and beef. The meat is still too salty, it has not been soaked enough. Still, he could not do this. Lorna has been helping, the sleeves of her russet gown pushed up, her face flushed, her hair damp from the steam. How this place has upended society.

He takes his plate and sits on a stool in the main deck. Bill comes and sits nearby. They eat in silence. When Bill is almost finished, he looks up and says: “Don’t mind George”. He drops his eyes to his plate again. “We saw you hauling, reefing, taking your turn. He’s been below, seasick and muttering, only on deck when Atticus bullies him. Who’s a better sailor, then?” He looks up at William again, stands up with his empty plate and walks back to the galley. 

William has never expected much from his fellow man; has hidden among his like, trying not to draw attention in the world, and now here, in this place out of place, where he could not hide, there is a sort of kindness of strangers. Or rather, a suspension of judgment. By some people. He’s not naïve enough to expect it everywhere. There will always be more George Browns than French Bills. But perhaps in the new world there might be some like Bill. And James.

He goes to his cabin and lies down to sleep in his clothes, ready to be called on deck, and indeed, is summoned, Bill shaking his shoulder, in the blackest part of the night. He puts on his shoes and follows him back on deck, does as he is told, still half asleep, and then stands at the rail, looking out at the island. A sea mist has risen and the land is only discernible as a darker mass against the inky sky. 

Dawn creeps up at their backs, lighting the island, painting its peak golden. Standing at his side, Robert, excitement having bested a boy’s natural sleepiness, is peering at the harbour through the spyglass. “There’s a boat,” he says. “Oh! It’s him!” William strains his eyes. He can see the boat. “Here, sir,” says the boy, handing him the glass. William raises it and the boat leaps into focus. It is a bigger boat than yesterday’s, and six men are rowing, James among them, closest to the stern, his shoulders bunching under his coat. William watches for a long moment. 

“Why so many, do you think, sir?”

“They may be coming to tow us in, I think,” says William, lowering the glass and handing it back to Robert. He goes back below to straighten his clothes, wash his face, set his hair to rights. His heart is beating fast, which is ridiculous. James isn't a stranger, he’s only been gone the night. But he has been in a new place, and anything may have happened. A welcome, evidently, if he has secured the services of a launch and crew.

He goes back on deck to wait for the boat. For James. After what seems an age, as the day gets brighter, the boat nudges the side of Good Hope. Bill throws down the ladder and James comes aboard. It is hard to tell from his face if he has had success on land. He walks straight aft to speak to Atticus. William stays out of the way near the hatchway, with the women. James next goes to speak to Bill, who throws a line to the men in the boat. Robert scurries to the fore hatch and returns with a scowling Brown, who throws James a black look. Bill descends the ladder into the boat, and after a long mutinous minute, so does Brown. 

James approaches. “The launch will tow us in, but we still need sail to assist. I'm going aloft. Stand by the sheets, Godders, Pearl?” William nods. Robert has already raced into the main mast rigging and out along the yard; James climbs the leeward side. The sail falls, and is sheeted home, and the ship begins to move with more purpose. The riggers descend and the operation is performed again on the the foresail. James comes back to the deck and calls down to the launch, which is rowed to the ship’s bow to take the tow line. Now they gather pace in earnest. At the helm, Atticus laughs aloud. James stands in the bow a moment, but then comes aft again and says: “Come below with me?” 

They descend the ladder and James strides to his cabin. There he turns and the look in his eyes is one of triumph. “I did it, Godders!” 

“Did what, James?” But William can’t help an answering grin, catching James’ excitement.

“I saw him! Colonnade. The American. He saw me. God, Billy. I didn’t know if he still would. Who knows what reports he’s had.”

“But surely we have outrun any news from London?”

“Yes, yes. You’re right. Of course. Can we keep ahead of it still, do you think?”

“We can but hope,” he says, and dares to reach out to James. “I never doubted you.” 

“Ah, Billy. You don't even know what I'm about and yet you trust? I don't deserve it.”

It is true. James has not confided his full plan, but why should William doubt? He has never understood James fully, but he has always trusted him. 

“Will you tell me? Confide your plan?” His heart bangs in his throat as he says it, and he looks down, away from James’ face. 

But James takes William’s chin and forces him to look up. “I will. But not here. Not now. These walls are too thin. Come into the town with me?”

He nods, unable to trust his voice. James too nods, sharply. His bent finger is curled against the soft underside of William’s jaw. He can surely feel him swallow.

“Good. Thank you.” He doesn't let William escape his penetrating gaze for what seems an age, but finally he lets his hand fall and turns away, sits on the cot, shoulders slumped now. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he says.

“Stay here. I will call you when it is time.” William closes the door softly and goes back on deck.

The land looms up, the ship is surrounded by others, the harbour wall is startlingly close. He walks aft to the helm. 

“All well?” says Atticus.

“I think so.”

Atticus nods. “Christ knows why I trust him. But he said he could. Delaneys, eh? His father was a right rum ’un, but he did what he said he would.”

They stand in silence, listening to the steady rush of the water, the sighing of the breeze, the creak of the launch’s oars and grunts of the rowers, the screech of the gulls and the faint sounds of men at work on the quays. 

The ship glides gently up to the quay, and William goes below. 

“It is time, James,” he calls, tapping on the door. 

Lorna, who was not needed on deck after all, steps out of her cabin, dressed for going out, as if she were about to call on an acquaintance in London. 

“Ground under one’s feet!” she says. “A room that does not sway.” 

“Indeed, Mrs Delaney,” he says, opening James’ door and stepping inside, closing it behind him. James is looking at something in his hand, a dully-gleaming stone. He thrusts it into his pocket.

“We have arrived, James.”


	9. Chapter 9

****Chapter nine** **

He follows James down the gangplank, staggering slightly as his feet touch the unyielding ground. James catches his elbow briefly.

Lorna and Pearl, the girl wearing the gown refashioned from William’s, follow them down, and stand clutching each other. The men and Robert have been told to stay aboard. Robert stands by the side of the ship, gazing longingly at the bustling wharf. 

“Come,” says James, striding away along the quay. He hurries to keep up, the women following more slowly. James has forgotten the niceties, if he ever knew them. He stops at the door of an inn. “You will want a breakfast,” he says.

The thought of food that is not beef and potatoes, or ship’s biscuit, makes his mouth water. James pushes the door open. They are a strange party. The almost-lady and the prostitute, the adventurer and the … molly.

After a breakfast of eggs and coffee, eaten mostly in silence, James says to Lorna: “I have business now. Go back to the ship.”

Lorna’s chin goes up. “I will not! We’ve just got our feet on firm ground. We shall walk about the town.” Beside her, Pearl looks almost nervous. 

James shrugs. “Suit yourself. Come, Godders.” He walks out so quickly, his huge coat fanning behind him, that William has to hurry in an undignified way. But outside, a short way up the steeply sloping street, James is waiting. “I need you,” he says. “I need you to listen and see. I need you to help me.” 

But he suddenly looks so weary. “James?” William reaches out, touches James’ sleeve.

“I do not sleep, Billy. They give me no rest.” A dark cloud passes across his face, for all that they are standing on a bright street, surrounded by the bustle of the busy harbour. 

“Do you have business this minute? Come,” he says, turning back to the inn. “Come, James.” And James follows. He inquires for a room. There is one, and ignoring the innkeeper’s curiosity, they follow him up the stairs. There is a bed, and a chair by the window, which looks out over the quayside. “There, James. Rest now.”

James nods, pulling off his coat, loosening his neckcloth. He sits heavily on the bed and William, after a moment’s pause, kneels to pull off his boots, just like so long, long ago. 

James drops his hand to his shoulder. “Ah, Godders. You are good to me.”

William doesn't look up, doesn't trust his face. “Rest now,” he says, his voice rough. James’ hand tightens, and then he lifts his feet onto the bed, lies down and rolls away.

William, who also slept little, sits in the hard chair by the window and looks out at Good Hope. Robert is sweeping the deck, pausing often to lean on his broom and gaze up at the town. William lets his mind drift, idly following the swaying of the masts and the wheel of the gulls over the sparkling water, his cheek pillowed on his hand.

He is startled from his doze by James’ sharp cry, his breathless muttering of not-words, and leaps up. But he stops himself from approaching the bed. James has flopped onto his back and is staring at the ceiling, unseeing, still muttering incomprehensibly. William feels frozen in the middle of the floor, until finally, James rolls on his side. He stares for a long minute, frowning. “Billy?” he says, as if he can't recall where he is, who William is. “Billy?” He sounds unmoored. 

William steps to the bed and sits down. James grabs his hand. “No rest,” he sighs, “never any rest.” But his eyes are dropping shut again. “Stay with me?” he says, tugging on William’s hand. “Stay with me?” William nods, and lies down, his back to James. His heart is banging in his throat, he cannot breathe, but behind him, James sighs and relaxes. William lies still, his knees drawn up, his feet hanging off the bed, listening to James breathe. 

The light in the room is different when he wakes. He had thought he wouldn't sleep, couldn't sleep, but it seems he has. He has relaxed in his sleep, slumped against James. He is very warm, a trifle sweaty in his clothes, stiff from lying in one position. He thinks he never wants to get up, could lie here forever. So he lies still, listening to the sounds from beyond the window, to James’ soft snoring. The warmth of James’ breath against his neck is an exquisite torture.

At last, James rouses, pushes away from William, sits up. William twists to look at him, his back groaning in agony. Some of the hard lines have softened from James’ face. “I slept, Billy,” he says, a slight amazement in his voice. 

William sits up, rubs his hand over his face, combs through his hair. “I am glad,” he says. He stands up, goes over to the window. At the quay, Good Hope looks deserted. They are all below, sleeping, he supposes. “What now, James?”

James groans. “Now, back to the Americans. We did not parlay last night. Only drank tea and took the measure of each other. All this damn talk, Godders, I'm so tired of all this damn talk!”

He pulls on his boots, begins to pace in the small room.

“Will you tell me now what you want? What you intend?”

“What I want? I hardly know. I came back from Africa determined to have my revenge on the Company for what they did to me. What they made me do. What they took from me.” He comes to stand next to William, looking out at the ship. 

“I thought it would be … simple. Not easy, but not so messy. It seems I had forgotten how society works. How messy and dirty and mean it is.” He turns away and resumes pacing. “I had something. I wanted something. Then it got so tangled.”

William doesn't say anything, lets James speak.

“I wanted her! And then she … changed … and all the time, in my head, the voices and the spirits.” 

William does not know what James is talking about, but he recalls finding him in the woods, wild-eyed and muttering. James has been talking about “her” all these years without ever explaining. He doesn't turn, but speaks quietly, facing the quay, looking out at their home, for now. “Perhaps you want a new life, where everything is less dirty? Where all is less tangled? Can the Americans give this to you, or shall you take it for yourself?” 

James has stopped pacing. “A new life. Yes. How will we make it, Billy?”

“I don't know. I do know that I want that, also. No more hiding!” He turns to face James. “I won't. You won't.” 

They look at each other across the narrow space. “No,” says James. “No.” He reaches for his coat. “Come, Billy.” 

William follows him out of the door and down the stairs, back into the bright street and up the hill into the town. 

It is early afternoon and the streets are hot and deserted in the Iberian manner. James strides along until they reach a house in a back street where he knocks. A man comes to the door. “Colonnade,” says James. The man nods and gestures them in. “Mr Godfrey is my secretary,” James says, in answer to the look of speculation directed at William. The man nods again. William is glad he thought to put his small writing case into his pocket. Fine secretary he’d make without the ability to write down what he hears. Not that he needs to write everything down. He’d managed to remember what was said under a raised hand, after all. 

They are led into a parlour overlooking a small yard at the back of the house. James flings himself into a chair. William stands at the window. Minutes tick by on a clock on the mantel. James sighs heavily. Finally, a short, unassuming man walks in. James stands up. 

“Delaney,” the man says.

“I have brought my secretary, Mr Godfrey. I trust that is acceptable.” It’s not a question. The other man nods at William and sits down opposite James. William remains at the window, there is a seat under it. The servant enters with a tray.

“Coffee?” says their host. James makes a quiet noise of impatience, but accepts a cup. None is offered to William, he is not a person in his own right here, just as it had been in the Company committee room. He takes out his writing case, opens it on his knee, smooths open a sheet of paper, dips his pen and waits. 

“I have conferred, Mr Delaney, and seeing you secured a safe passage from our London …” he pauses, “from our … correspondent, I think I have the authority to allow you a letter of introduction to the president.”

“Thank you,” says James. “I believe my cargo may be of interest to your forces on this side of the ocean, however. I was told in London that the situation was quite pressing.”

“Oh?” says the man. “Oh yes. Indeed. We should be interested. Most interested.” He stops short, as if concerned that he has been unwise in his hasty eagerness. 

William looks up, catches the look of satisfaction that crosses James’ face before he drops his mask of impassivity down once more.

“Good,” says James. He doesn't say what William knows he needs, money to pay a proper crew. 

“May I inspect the cargo?” 

“Certainly. Once we have agreed terms,” says James. 

The other man looks somewhat chastened. “Of course. Although,” he adds, “I cannot agree final terms for something I have not seen.”

James raises an eyebrow. “And you are an expert in …?”

“Well, I should need a sample, to test.” 

James says nothing, just makes a skeptical noise, a slight smile not reaching his eyes.

Colonnade clears his throat, nervously. James lets the silence stretch out. 

“If I could confer. And then we can set … preliminary terms. But we shall want a sample.”

“Of course,” says James, standing up. William hastily caps his ink, closes his case. “I am docked at the main quay,” says James. “You may bring your offer to me on board Good Hope. Good day.” 

Their host looks somewhat startled, but recovers himself to say: “Certainly. Tomorrow morning. Good day.” 

William follows James out. The light in the street is more slanting and golden. James walks off, then turns to William. “I knew it, Godders!” He is grinning. “They are desperate!”

They walk slowly back down towards the harbour. At the inn, James pauses. “I should go back on board. Let the others go ashore. It’s not the Navy, or the Company. But would you like to sleep ashore tonight?” 

“Thank you,” says William. “I would like that, I think.” 

James nods, and strides down the street to the quay. William goes inside, and up to the room. He sits on the bed, remembering this morning. It’s too quiet. He gets up and goes to the window. On board Good Hope, James is speaking to Atticus. Robert comes up on deck. James goes below and the men and Robert come down onto the wharf and walk up the street, out of sight. William wonders at Robert being allowed to go with them. He wonders, again, what Robert is to James. He looks out at the ship for several more minutes, but it is still, the deck empty, so he goes back to the bed and lies down. 

For all that it is early, he falls asleep. He is woken by knocking. When he unlatches the door, James is there. 

“The women need supper,” he says. William cannot at first imagine what that has to do with him, until it occurs that James is reluctant to make them dine alone.

“Come in, James,” he says. There is a jug and basin on a stand, and he washes his face, reties his neckcloth, fixes his hair. James is reclining on the bed and William feels his eyes on him, can see him in the looking glass. It seems that they have been in bedrooms all too often. Their whole life together has been thus, ever since school, to the house when James came to find him, to the cabins on the ship.

“You look very fine, Godders,” says James, standing up. “I will go and bring the women.” He closes the door quietly behind himself, leaving William utterly dumbfounded.


	10. Chapter 10

****Chapter ten** **

He meets George Brown as he walks along the quay back to the ship in the morning. His shirt is torn and bloodied, and his eye is swelling. He gives William a filthy look but doesn't say anything. William waits for him to go aboard and below. James isn't in his cabin; William finds him in the great cabin that stretches the width of the stern. No one has used it yet. 

“There you are,” says James. Faintly, from the foredeck, they can hear the sound of Atticus berating Brown.

“He appears to have been fighting,” says William. James shrugs. 

On the table in front of him is a small bag. “A sample for the Americans.”

William nods, but there is a slight awkwardness in the room. James begins to pace, looking at his watch. They did not fix a time yesterday, so their wait for the Americans may stretch out. There is a locker across the width of the cabin, under a wide set of windows, and William sits down there. The sunlight on the water is casting dancing shadows on the ceiling.

“Why did you not use this cabin before?” 

“I did not want to set myself apart.”

“And now?”

“Now I need to.” 

James comes to sit on the locker and they both look out at the water and the dock. Finally, Colonnade and another man approach. James leaves the room, and William sets paper and ink on the desk. James leads the two men into the room, and William stands. Colonnade nods in recognition before stepping over the the table, greedily eyeing the bag of powder. 

“May I?” he says. James nods and he carefully opens the bag. The other man thrusts in the tip of a knife he has drawn from a sheath at his waist and withdraws a small heap of the black grains. He hmms under his breath, touches a fingertip to the powder and touches it to his tongue. “Yes?” says Colonnade. The man nods, rubbing a few grains between his finger and thumb. “We need to fire it as well,” says Colonnade.

“Of course,” says James. “You have a gun?”

“Above the town. Shall we go?” says Colonnade.

James glances at William. “First we need to agree terms,” he says. 

“Ah yes.” As if he had forgotten this detail. 

They agree a sum, subject to the Americans’ satisfaction. William makes out a bill, and they both sign. 

“Now we can go to fire your gun,” says James, gesturing them out. He looks over his shoulder. “Will you come?”

William hates the sound of gunfire, but he caps his ink and nods. “Of course.”

On a barren hillside a steep climb above the town, the Americans have set up a small gun, a bow chaser perhaps. 

William is sweating slightly from the exertion. He stands back from the weapon while it is loaded and primed. James too steps back as the assistant touches a taper to the touch hole. The gun goes off with a resonant bang, leaving white smoke drifting in a cloud down the slope. James turns to him with a grin of triumph. “Cholmondley was a clever man!” he says. 

The Americans nod in satisfaction and James walks over to them to conclude the delivery terms. William looks out over the sea sparkling in the distance through the thin veil of smoke.

The future is about to begin.

*

The last cart pulls away from the ship, which is riding higher in the water empty of its cargo. William turns to go below, but James reaches a hand out. “I need your advice. But not here. Will you go back to the inn?”

It is late in the day and they have been too busy to eat, James in the hold as the powder was carried above, William on the dock, noting numbers of barrels. 

The inn’s dining room is dim and the floor pooled with beer, but the food is hot. They do not speak much as they eat, until James pushes his chair back and calls for coffee. 

“I need a bigger crew, a better crew,” he says, “if we are to cross an ocean against the winds. Getting here … I don't know how we achieved it. We should not have.”

“What do I know of sailing, James?”

James smiles. “Little, it’s true. But you understand people. You could help me choose a crew. And I would not take that … filthy-mouthed lout.”

“George Brown? Do not put him off on my account.”

“Why should I not?”

“James—”

“No! He’s filthy, disrespectful and dangerous. But not just on your account. I will not sail all that way with such a man. It is my ship. I won’t have him!”

William’s face is burning; he’s glad it is so dim.

“Thank you. I'm sure we all thank you, James. How will you find crew here, though?” 

“Write up a notice, post it at the dock. They will come. Every harbour everywhere has its share of sailors with no ship. And I can pay.”

“How many will you take?” 

“A crew of ten would sail her, I think. Atticus, Bill, Robert, me—”

“And I, James?” 

“You … don’t need to do anything you do not want to, Godders.” James leans forward, his eyes intent on William. “You paid for your passage in London.”

“So did Atticus and Bill. And Robert, I think.”

James looks away, nods. “Yes, they did as I asked. But what did they risk? How are their lives worse here than there? They are not.”

“And you think mine is? James, we have spoken of this. What did I have in London! Truly? A life of shame and judgment.”

“You had a job, a place, friends …” James is still looking off to the side. “I selfishly sought you out, threatened you, took you away. From your life.” 

“Selfishly?” 

“I knew you would do as I asked.”

“You think I am so weak?”

“You were terrified! You wept!”

It is undeniable. William has no reply. 

“You know I'm a monster,” says James, almost under his breath. 

William stands up. “I am going back to the ship now,” he says, trying to speak calmly. “Please do not follow me out.” Back rigid, he walks to the door. The night air outside is blessedly cool and clean after the fug of the dining room. He takes deep breaths as he walks. 

Bill has the evening harbour watch. “Evenin’,” he says pleasantly, as William comes aboard.

“Good evening,” says William, but he cannot stay to talk. He goes below, takes off his coat and lies upon his cot. The gentle rocking of the ship soothes him. But he lies awake. _Does James think of him as weak? In need of protection, of special consideration? Does he think of himself as weak? Perhaps he had, before James returned._

He is woken by a crash as his door is flung open. There is little light, but he recognises James’ shape in the doorway, darker against the dark. 

“Billy? Forgive me Billy? It was unforgivable of me …” 

He is swaying slightly, slurring. He is drunk.

“Oh, James. Go to bed,” he says. 

James advances into the room, touches William’s face. “I’m sorry, Billy.” He backs out, closes the door, harder than he intends, perhaps.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter eleven**

James isn't on deck when William goes up in the morning. It is a foggy day. Atticus is working on a rope end; he looks up and smiles. It is still startling, to be accepted by such a man. “Good morning,” says William, walking over to the rail. The town is invisible, its noises muted.

“Mornin’.” Atticus bends to his task. “He came aboard late,” he remarks, conversationally. William doesn't know how to respond. “But who am I to judge a man,” Atticus adds with a laugh.

“Where is Robert?” William asks, to change the subject, and out of concern; his last sight of him had been setting off with the men, into the town. It seems likely that a tavern had been their destination.

“Asleep, like all boys,” says Atticus. “He’s a good lad.”

“And very young.”

“You think so? I was at sea at his age.”

“But had he not lived a quiet country life, before this?”

Atticus shrugs. “I don't know. Only that he was helping Cholmondley make the powder. Fearless boy.”

William doesn't want to gossip with Atticus about the child. He will ask James about him, some time.

“Have you seen Mrs Delaney?” he says.

“The women are still below,” says Atticus, his voice a little tight, hiding something he is not saying.

“Thank you,” says William, retreating below decks himself. There is tension on board that had been hidden during the thrill and uncertainty of the voyage from London. 

James opens his door as William crosses the main cabin. “Godders,” he says, his voice rough with alcohol, but he makes for the hatchway and ascends without saying anything more.

William is not used to being idle and alone. He sits on his cot, listening to the sounds of the harbour, waiting for more signs of activity on board. Finally, he hears Lorna’s door open. He waits, and there is a tap at his door. He stands to open it. “Good morning, ma’am,” he says. 

“May I come in?” she says, urgently. “William, what does he intend? Are we to wait here for something? When will we sail on? How will we? He cannot make us sail this ship, can he?”

“I think you should speak to James, ma’am,” he says, a trifle sharply. “I am sure he does not intend for you to sail the ship, however.” 

She sighs dramatically. “No, I suppose not,” she says. 

“Shall we make tea?” says William, eager to deflect her discontent. “Where is Pearl? Would she not like tea?”

“Pearl!” she says, “Where is Pearl? Perhaps the men know.” 

William waits for her to step out of the doorway, and walks towards the galley, where the stove is hot. It seems Atticus has seen to this, too. The tea made, he carries a cup up to Atticus. James is not on deck and he doesn't ask after him. He wonders how long his anger at James will last.

It lasts until the afternoon, when James emerges again, looking haggard. “Will you come to the great cabin, please Godders?” he asks. He can't think of a reason to refuse without drawing attention, so he nods and follows James back below. He has papers spread on the table in the wide cabin. Lists of stores, it seems, written in his own hand. It is a wonder to William, how beautiful James’ handwriting still is, despite what he imagines as years in the wilderness, never seeing paper nor ink.

“I have been trying to count our stores,” says James. “It was easier to come at them now the powder is gone. Sir Stuart had a strange idea of the provisions for a two-month voyage. He was hoping we’d starve. Well, I won, and we shall not starve.” His tone is a mixture of bitter and triumphant. 

“Can the island provide such stores as we need?”

“It is in the business of provisioning ships. And providing the men to eat the provisions,” says James. “But we do lack heavy storm canvas. It was only bound for the Mediterranean, not the Atlantic. I do not know if we shall procure that.”

“How may I help?” says William. There is no gain from holding onto his grudge, when James probably intended no insult. 

“Help me write a notice to lure sailors. Help me choose men.” He pauses. “Help me understand what Lorna and Pearl want?”

“Can you not ask yourself?”

James laughs, short. “Lorna? She’ll never tell me straight.”

“I sense tension among the men over Pearl,” says William, recalling Atticus. “They may want her in her … former profession, I think.”

“They are sailors,” says James. “I can't turn Lorna off, but I wish Pearl wasn't aboard. Sailors think women are bad luck, and she _will_ cause disputes. The men do not respect her. I can hire another cook.”

William wishes what James says was not true, but he fears it is. The men will not see her aside from who she used to be. He wonders if she can see herself otherwise.

“She could take passage back to England. Go to another city, or a town. They won’t come looking for her,” says James. “Could you not persuade her of this?”

William knows he can't refuse, even as he wonders how he will achieve it.

James has not offered an apology; he probably never will, so William will have to be content with this overture.

Later he goes to find Pearl. She is in her cabin, sewing ribbon to her new gown, making it more her own. She smiles at him. He wonders if her view of the world is as simple as it seems.

“Pearl?” he says, and stops, unsure how to continue. “Are you happy here?”

“Yes,” she says. He waits. “Some of the time,” she adds. “Not when George Brown looks at me. And I don't mind the cooking,” she rushes on, “but I should hate to be a cook forever. And what will I do in America? Where would I live? I would have no one.” 

“Do you have people, back in London? Is that where you were born?” 

“Deptford. I have an auntie and a cousin.” Her eyes turn a little wistful. “I left because there was no money. No work. I didn't always mind it at Helga’s. I liked my clothes. Some of the men were nice …”

“Would you like to go back to England?”

“How can I? We are all stuck here, bound for I don't know where.”

“Perhaps you could. Ships call here, you could go back. He says you may,” he adds.

“He does? I would never dare to ask him.”

“He’s not a monster, you know.”

“They told such stories about him. But I don't think he is what they said. He is just a man. But I would never dare to ask that.” 

“Would you like me to speak with him about it?”

“Oh sir! Thank you!” She holds up the dress she has fashioned from his, newly decorated with ribbons. “You are very good, sir.”

“Well …” he says. The dress is quite pretty. “You have a talent. You could be a seamstress, you know.” He closes the door behind him. Perhaps he’s not the only one who will remake himself on this journey.

“She does want to return home,” he tells James. “Leaving with us may have saved her, though.”

“League of the damned, Lorna called it.”

“I don't feel damned.”

William hardly hears the response, James says it so softly: “Good.”

*

The notice they’ve written draws a trickle of men to the ship, some ragged and wretched, obviously left behind because of tardiness or their own failures of skill, others clean, confident and harder to form an opinion of. William watches and listens as James and Atticus try to assess their abilities as sailors. It would not do to take on men unable to bend to the will of a man who has only his natural authority, not the weight of tradition and rules. Timid followers, waiting always to be told what to do, won't do either. Some will no doubt surprise their captain and themselves later; William hopes none will prove vicious. 

And all the while, the business of procuring the necessary provisions continues. William makes meticulous lists of supplies and where they are stowed under the guidance of Atticus. 

Days pass in which he hardly has a chance to speak to James, except to give his opinions of the men they have seen. They are all exhausted, but slowly the ship is brought into a state of readiness. 

All that remains to do is to visit the Americans again, for the promised letter of introduction to their president.

William dresses carefully, he wants to be unobtrusive, fading into the background, so he can listen to what is unsaid.

They walk up the hill through the town in silence. At the house, they are shown into the same back parlour and kept waiting. James paces restlessly, his heavy boots hushed by the carpet, his barely reined impatience disturbing the air in the room, scraping at William’s nerves. They have not yet regained their equilibrium since James’ thoughtless, true words.

Finally, the small man, Colonnade, who has never given his real name, or any real name, walks in. He extends his hand, smiling blandly. “Please forgive me,” he says. “The pressures of business …” 

James looks at the hand and grunts, standing in the middle of the room. Colonnade looks discomforted and glances at William. “Well, let us get down to our matter—”

“Indeed,” says James.

“Yes, well … We are most mindful of the fact that your … product … arrived at a crucial time.”

“I was promised a letter of introduction to your president. Do you have it?”

Colonnade frowns. “I … yes. I have it here. Please understand, I have been stationed here for many months. Not many ships have called. It is hard to know the ebb and flow, the tides and currents, of political feeling in Washington.” He holds out a sealed document. “I hope it is useful in your endeavours.” 

James reaches for the paper.

“May I ask,” says Colonnade, as their hands almost touch, “what you have to discuss with the president?”

“I have something he may want,” says James.

“Ah.” There is a look of avarice in the other man’s eyes. “I see.”

If he is hoping James will say more, he is disappointed. James puts the letter in his pocket and glances at William. “Thank you,” he says to Colonnade. “I think our business is concluded. We will sail within days.”

“A pleasure,” says Colonnade, unsmiling. James walks past him to the door and William is obliged to follow.

“Pompous prick,” says James once they are walking down the hill. “I shall be glad to put to sea again. Where everything is clearer.”

“It did seem,” says William, tentative, “that he knows less than he perhaps made you think, at first.” He pauses, unsure if he should continue. “But was it wise to be so—”

“So what? So myself?” James snorts. “I am who I am.” He walks on. “We will outsail any report he could send,” he adds, after a while. And as they near the quay, he says: “You are right.” He doesn't elaborate, though. 

The ship is now busy with men going about a variety of tasks, under the direction of Atticus. William goes to his cabin, leaving James to confer on matters of supplies, and sailing. The atmosphere on board is quite altered.

He is roused from his thoughts by a tap at the door. “Come in,” he says, standing up. Pearl is there.

“Oh, sir!” she says, a trifle breathless. “Bill has found me a place upon a ship sailing for London. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” 

“Yes! I wanted to thank you for your kindness, sir. Do you think I could thank him, too?”

“I'm not sure he would consider his actions a kindness. But I will go and look for him.” 

“Thank you, sir,” she says, hurrying off to her own cabin. 

William first goes aft, knocks on the door of the great cabin. There is no answer, so he goes up on deck. James is near the helm, conferring with Atticus, looking up into the rigging. William approaches and waits till James looks down and sees him. “James, Pearl has found a berth. She would like to take her leave.”

“Good,” says James. “Yes.”

Atticus nods. “It’s the right thing,” he says. “I told Bill to see her right.” 

“Bring her to the cabin, Godders.” James walks to the hatchway. William waits a moment before following to call Pearl.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter twelve**

The island drops away on their wake as the men come down from the rigging. It has taken hours to leave the harbour, the crew still uncertain of each other and unfamiliar with the ship. William stands at the port rail, preferring to look ahead. Lorna comes on deck. If she was sorry to see Pearl leave, to be left as the only woman on board, she has not said so. She looks out ahead, tipping her face up to the rushing of air. 

“It’s quite a different ship now,” she says. 

“Yes.”

“Has he hired enough men to sail it safely?” 

“I think so. Enough certainly to be comfortable.”

“Comfort! I haven't known comfort since I walked into that lawyer’s room to claim my share of Horace’s legacy. Perhaps I should never have done so. I'd have more comfort without ever having met him.”

There is so much that is not clear to William, so much he has not been told, but he doesn't ask. He has no loyalty to Lorna; his only knowledge of Horace Delaney’s legacy is what he knows from the committee room. Delaney acquired Nootka somehow, made a series of marriages, possibly unwise, and left a trail of confusion behind him. James will explain what he wants to explain when the time comes. William can wait. He has waited before.

He is tired of Lorna’s petulance, but he understands it. He turns away, however. “Forgive me, ma’am, I must go and see what …” He trails off, uncertain if James will want him for something. James is with Atticus at the helm and William approaches. James looks up. “There you are, Godders!” he says. “See how she goes with enough men to make sail!” 

Atticus laughs, delighted by the speed. “Proper sailing now. Into the breeze, beating up, going about. Never a dull moment.”

“It is … exhilarating,” William agrees. The breeze catches his hair, the sun burns his shoulders under his shirt, the deck skips under his feet. James’ eyes are shining with triumphant pleasure. They remain on deck as the sun passes the zenith and begins to decline in front of the ship — through several manoeuvres as Atticus takes the measure of his crew, through the noon observation. The cook comes on deck and bangs on a pan and the men are dismissed below to eat. James takes over the helm. William isn't certain where he should be.

“You'll dine with me, of course,” says James. “And Lorna,” he adds. 

They dine in the great cabin, where James is now in residence. The reflected light gleams on the cutlery. The food is better than that prepared by Pearl of course; the supplies are fresh, the cook is a navy man who lost his place in unexplained circumstances. When they are done, James pushes back his chair and pours coffee, another luxury of island provisioning. Lorna drinks a cup, then stands up to leave. “Thank you James. William.” She nods and withdraws.

“At last,” says James. “She resents me. She resents you, too, I think.”

William doesn't know what to say in reply; he looks out of the stern windows at the wake in silence until James starts to speak again. “She thought when she married my father that she’d get everything he had to leave. And then when she came to claim it, I was there. And I dragged her along with me. I had need of her.” 

William turns to look at him, to try to understand his hidden meanings. He is certain Lorna has wanted James, perhaps James has wanted Lorna.

“There were things she could do for me,” says James, meeting his eyes. “But she wanted things I was not prepared to give.” He looks away. 

After a long pause, he says: “Zilpha. I thought I still wanted her. But then …” He trails off.

And William finally understands James’ hints and nameless longing — ever since school. The letters, the unspoken almost-shame. 

James is staring out of the window. “She killed herself, you know. Threw herself into the river. She did a terrible thing. She said I pushed her to it, but afterwards … it wasn't the same. I couldn't look at her the same way. She couldn't look at herself.” He is not speaking to William so much as to himself. “She threw herself into the river. We sailed down the river. She could just follow our wake to find me. She’ll be there in the water, always. Perhaps she will be with my mother. Why not with her own mother? No, she was mad. The mad stick together …”

William stands up and steps in front of James, blocking his view of the wake, cutting off his gaze into the past. “James?” He is uncertain of what he wants to say, but he knows what he wants. He wants James. Here with him, looking at a breathing person who cares for him, not staring after a ghost who does not. James looks up at him, his eyes focused now, filled with pain. “James, I am here now,” he says, trying to make his voice firm despite his breath fluttering in his throat. “ _I_ am here.” 

“Yes. Thank God, Billy.” 

William steps forward again. “I am here now,” he says again, firmer. He extends his hand to James, who clutches at it with both his. He sighs, a shuddering noise, and William stands there, braced against the swaying of the deck, looking down at James, at his long lashes hiding his downcast eyes, his straight nose, his soft mouth. 

After what seems a long time, James looks up. “You are here, Billy,” he says. “Thank you.” He drops William’s hand, rubs both his own down his face. William turns away. Outside the window, dusk is falling. Suddenly, he is exhausted and has to get away. “I’ll leave you now. Good evening, James,” he says, and walks to the door. Behind him, James is silent.

In his own cabin he lies down without taking off any of his clothes. He can still feel James’ rough hands on his. “I am here, James,” he says into the gloom. “I am here.”

He doesn’t sleep, but lies awake long into the night, hearing the sounds of the ship all around. The rushing of the water, the creak of the planks, and now, the voices of several men, their feet tramping above his head.

And there in the dark he thinks of James and his secret. His secret even darker than the secret of William’s life. How did it start? Did two children cling to each other for comfort? Did his defiance of his shame feed his defiance of all authority? William has defied the shame the world has told him to feel ever since he first understood, in the darkness of the Addiscombe dormitory, that what he felt was not the same as what other boys felt. He knew without being told that he could not speak of it, must hide it. But he could never deny it. And James knew the same of his own secret desire. 

When his eyes are sore and dry from staring into the darkness, he finally closes them, and then he sees, as he always does, James’ face. He sees it as he saw it this evening — raw, open, stripped of the veil of secrecy he has always worn. Finally, they stand on even ground, both their truths laid bare.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter thirteen**

On deck in the dawn, there is a silent plea in James’ eyes, although he surely knows William would never betray him.

“Come to breakfast, Godders?” he says. “There are eggs.”

Lorna is already seated at the table, buttering a slice of bread. “We might as well eat properly for a few days,” she says. “I laid in some supplies.” 

James grunts, but he eats bread with his eggs. They’ll be back to biscuit soon enough. 

“James,” says Lorna, “how long is this passage to America likely to be? I have been thinking about how I should occupy myself. I thought perhaps Robert would like some lessons. Can the child read, I wonder?”

“Old Ibbotson was no teacher, certainly. His board was paid for. I have no idea if he was schooled. I never saw evidence of it. Not a stupid boy, though.”

“Who paid? Who is he, James?”

“None of your concern.” James stands up abruptly.

“Forgive me, James. I only wondered …”

“Don’t,” he says, walking to the door.

“I only wondered,” she repeats when they are alone, her voice tight. William doesn't reply. She sighs theatrically and gets up herself. “Good day.” 

William has also wondered, but he will not gossip with her. 

When James takes the noon observation, he calls Robert over and shows him how he takes the angle of the sun. The boy watches and listens, his face as serious as it ever is. Lorna sees, from her seat at the main mast. 

At dinner, James says to Lorna: “You can teach him if you wish. If he wants. But he has work to do, you know.”

William does not quite know what he is supposed to do, what James wants of him. Now that there are other, more skilled men to sail the ship, he is surely not needed to shuffle cautiously out on a yard and reef a sail badly. But he does not want to be idle, the subject of resentful talk. Taking his turn in the rigging and at the helm had given him a place, had bought him the acceptance of Atticus and Bill, if not of George Brown. None of the new men know him as anything other than … what? James’ secretary? his particular friend? his associate in business? 

When Lorna has withdrawn again, he takes it up. “What am I to do on this voyage?” he says. “How am I to be useful?”

“I wanted _you_ to teach him,” says James. “I thought you could … that he might like that. There are things you could teach that she cannot.”

“Of course. I will teach him, whatever you want,” says William. “Will you tell me about him?”

James doesn’t look at him. “He is my … responsibility. A legacy of past misdeeds. A reminder. Do not press me, Billy, please?” He turns back from the window, his eyes clouded with memory and regret.

“I'm sorry, James, forgive me for prying.”

“It’s all a tangled mess!” James stands up. “Will you come on deck now?” 

So they go up to the windswept deck, the late sun sparkling on the small swell, the men quietly talking in a huddle forward. Robert is among them, being shown knots. He will have many teachers. 

William will gladly do this for James, but he wishes there was more he could do. No one has need of his “doctoring” skills at present, there are no records to keep. It is the first time in his life he has been so idle. 

*

In the night, the ship, which has been sailing smoothly, tacking into the steady breeze, pitches violently, throwing William from his bed. He fumbles into his breeches and shoes and gropes his way across to the hatchway. Seawater hits his face as he comes on deck and he is jostled by a hurrying sailor. James is at the helm. He looks over and sees William. “Godders!” he calls, above the sound of the wind, “lend Bill a hand!” 

Bill is hauling on the mainsail sheet, straining against the power of the gale to reduce sail. Men are on the yards, risking all to reef the canvas. William makes his way to the sheet, slipping, falling, drenched by flying spray and rain, buffeted by the wind. The ship is rolling madly, dashing headlong like a terrified horse, plunging down the slope of huge waves. He takes hold of the rope with Bill and begins to haul, bracing against the wild leaping of the deck.

Together, the whole crew fights for control, and finally the ship begins to quiet, only a small amount of canvas left aloft to guide it through the sudden storm, still climbing the waves and dropping away down the troughs, but less wildly.

They are all wet. William has slipped more than once, his knee is throbbing. There is blood running down more than one man’s face.

Atticus comes aft to the helm, grinning. “We did it!” He claps James on the shoulder. “I can take the helm back now, James,” he says. 

James relinquishes the wheel and steps aside, to where William is standing. “Alright?” he says. “Are you hurt? Go below.”

William is shivering, now the crisis is diminished. He is in his shirtsleeves, his hair is hanging in his eyes. He nods, turns to go, trying not to wince. 

Below decks, Lorna is peering around her cabin door. “Are we safe?” she says. “Such a pitching and rolling, I was tossed from my bed. I thought I should stay below, however. It seems calmer now?”

He walks over to her door. “A squall. Sail had to be reduced, but all is well now, I think. Are you hurt?” She shakes her head. He tilts his head towards his own cabin and steps away. “If you’ll forgive me?”

She notices his condition. “William! You are dripping! Are _you_ hurt?”

“No. I fell, it is nothing. I will go and get out of these things. The men have everything under control, ma’am. Good night.” 

In his own cabin, he strips off his wet clothes and climbs under the blanket, shivering. The ship is rolling more than usual, but there is no longer a sense of imminent danger. Sleep is beginning to creep back, when there is a tap at his door. “Yes?”

James comes into the small space, his coat dripping. “Billy? You fell.” 

“It is nothing. I doubt mine is the only injury. But we will weather this, won’t we, James?”

James reaches above his head, knocks his fist against a beam. “We should,” he says. “Thank God it happened now, when we have enough men. Thank you for coming on deck. I'm sorry you are hurt.” He stands where he is, as if unsure what to do or say next.

“Of course I had to come on deck, James. Will you rest now?” He feels the tension of their situation, he naked under the covers, James looming in the tiny room, dripping, awkward.

“I'll be on deck. I hope we will be through the storm by morning.” He backs out. “Good night, Billy.”

William is tired, and still cold, but he doesn't fall asleep immediately. 

*

The ship has a subdued air in the dull grey dawn, the sun peering weakly through the heavy bank of storm clouds behind them to the east. Ahead the horizon is clear, though, and the waves have quieted somewhat.

William’s knee aches and throbs as he walks forward to where James is standing at the port rail. He tries not to limp as he passes the men sheltering behind the main mast. “Alright, sir?” says Bill. William smiles, but it feels forced.

“Should you be up here?” says James when William reaches him.

“Yes, I can't lie in bed.” He wishes he could. His clothes are a little damp still and the breeze is fresh. He shivers. “The ship seems uninjured?”

“Yes. They gave us a better vessel than I feared. We’ll raise the heavy canvas today and be ready for the next storm. Our luck with the weather couldn't hold forever.” James has been looking out over the sea, but now he turns to face William. His short hair is standing wildly, there is salt in his beard. 

“You should come below now,” says William, “Your clothes are damp. You will catch a chill.”

James laughs. “I am never ill. But I would like coffee, if it can be had. And dry clothes.”

“Good.” William moves back towards the hatchway.

The cook has the stove lit, now the sea is calm enough again, and William asks for coffee and eggs. He lingers by the fire a while, feeling his clothes drying out and warmth seeping back into his body. The cook is bustling about, marking porridge for the men. It is a happy, well-fed ship, so far.

He knocks on the door of James’ cabin, carrying the coffee pot, and hears a muffled “Come”. Inside, James is naked, rubbing himself down. The thick black marks William had seen on his torso extend to his legs, encircling his powerful thighs with heavy bands. James pulls a shirt over his head and turns round. If he sees William’s frank gaze, he doesn't react to it. “Coffee, thank God!” he says, the long tails of his shirt hiding the fact that he is still half naked. “Pour me a cup, Billy, while I dress?”

William sets the pot down, grateful to have something to do. He pours two cups and carries one to James, who is stepping into his drawers. He takes the cup, his fingers brushing William’s, and drains it, handing it back and pulling on his breeches just as there is another knock at the door. William opens it to the cook, who is followed by Lorna. James seems unembarrassed to be barefoot. “Thank God!” he says. “Thank you, Jeffers. Come in, Lorna.”

William can feel his face burning, and Lorna smirks slightly. The cook sets a dish of eggs down and backs out. 

“I thought we would founder, in the night, James, but then William told me the brave sailors had everything in hand. But still I hardly slept!” Lorna says, somewhat dramatically. 

James looks at her with amusement. “I’m glad you were reassured,” he says, glancing at William. “Thank you, Godders.”

William raises an eyebrow for James alone to see.

“You said last night you weren't the only one hurt, and I fear you were right,” James says when they have finished eating. “Would you be willing to doctor the injured? The men would be reassured.”

William’s own knee is heavily bruised and he remembers the blood he saw, last night.

“Of course, James. The men may come to see me in the main deck. May I have Mr Cholmondley's case?”

“Our gallant doctor!” says Lorna. James doesn't respond to that, levelling a flat look at her as he gets up, returning to the table with the medical case.

“I’ll go now,” says William, hoping Lorna will follow him out. When she stands to leave, James throws him a look of weary gratitude. 

He goes on deck, where one of the new men is at the helm. Robert is standing by and he asks him to pass the message to the injured. “Wasn't it terrible!” the boy says, eyes shining.

Three men come down to see him. One has a gash in his hair. It has scabbed over, but William daubs on some of the salve he used on James’ wound and the man, Denham, seems happy. “It’s nothing really, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The second man has a similar injury to his own, his knee is swollen and bruised. He sends to the kitchen for hot water and applies a warm cloth, which is apparently soothing.

The third man, a small, slight fellow, has badly rope-burnt hands. “I was below. I should have been on the yard, but Hoyle took my place, sir, so I had to haul on a rope. I’ve been ashore two months, sir, my hands have gone soft.” More of the salve and bandages and he too goes away satisfied.

William repacks the case and returns to the great cabin, where James is asleep. He sits upon the locker, looking out at the wake, and over at James’ cot. His sleep seems restless, and he mutters, as he has done before, but he doesn’t wake while William watches. After an hour he goes to the galley for more hot water and makes up a poultice for his own knee. He is sitting on the locker with his leg outstretched when James opens his eyes and looks at William without saying anything. William too remains silent. Finally, James smiles and turns over to sleep again. His sleep seems calmer and William slips out quietly. 

On deck, Denham nods and tips his cap at him. Tending to the men at James’ suggestion has given him a place in the crew.

It is easy for people to see only the hard exterior that James shows to the world. Few see the side he has shown William, or the kindnesses he gives him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter fourteen**

James summons Robert to breakfast in the cabin the next morning, and the boy arrives looking hungry and well scrubbed. He stands diffidently near the door until James says: “Sit down! We don’t bite.” He slips into the chair furthest from James and accepts three eggs when Lorna offers them, eating doggedly with his head down. When they have all finished, James pushes his chair back and says: “Robert, Mrs Delaney has offered to give you lessons. Can you read and write?”

“A little, sir. I can write my name.”

Lorna looks sharply at him, but doesn't say anything.

“Hmmph. Mrs Delaney will teach you your letters. Mr Godfrey will teach you mathematics. You can come here for an hour after breakfast every morning. In fact, come here for breakfast. You can learn manners too.”

A cloud passes briefly over the child’s face, but he says: “Yes sir, thank you sir. Shall you teach me observations? Please, sir?”

“What? Yes, of course. You can start today, with reading. If Mrs Delaney is ready? Reading today, mathematics tomorrow. I will tell Atticus.” He gets up, and passing behind Robert’s chair, cuffs him gently on the head. “Don’t look so glum, boy.”

“I will go and fetch a book,” says Lorna. Outside, she turns to James, who has followed her out, trailed by William. “I have only a Shakespeare, but it will have to do, I suppose. Poor child.”

James looks amused, but he doesn't say anything. “Let’s go and break the news to Atticus, Godders,” he says, climbing the hatchway ladder.

Atticus is talking to one of the new men near the foremast, pointing up into the rigging. When he looks round, James says: “I have stolen the boy to get him some lessons. An hour a day, after breakfast.”

“Oh yes?” says Atticus. “Good, he shall be able to profit from my book, in time.”

James snorts, apparently entertained. “He can get shipcraft from you and the others,” he says. “A fine midshipman he would be. Not that I’d give him to his Majesty.”

There is a lightness to James today that is hard to pin on any one thing, but William feels an answering levity as the wind tugs his hair and his shirt. 

“It’s my turn at the helm, Godders, will you work on your lesson?”

“Honestly, James, I’ve no idea at all how to go about teaching mathematics from the beginning. I’ll send him to you for the sailing calculations, you know I was never good at those.” He says it to see if James recalls, as he does.

“You learnt readily enough when you had the right teacher.” James has a backward-looking expression. “Those were easier times, I think.”

They are standing at the helm. The deck is not empty, but there is no one close.

“Not really, James.” 

James looks at him sharply. “No. But for me. Fewer voices clamouring.” His light mood is clouded now. “Fewer voices.”

William doesn't know how to respond, and this isn't the place. He stands a few moments more in silence. Then he goes below and, sitting on his cot, writes simple sums on a sheet of paper. He will find out tomorrow just how much the boy knows.

At dinner, Lorna says: “He’s quick, James, and he can indeed write his name.”

James doesn't react, beyond saying: “Good. Of course he is not stupid.”

Lorna glances at William, trying to draw him into her insatiable curiosity about the child, but he ignores her.

“We started with a passage to stir a boy’s soul, from Henry the fifth. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more …’.”

“Stirring indeed,” says William. “Sums will not be, I think.”

“Sometimes they are,” says James, leaving William feeling somewhat at sea, and blushing. 

*

Robert presents himself for breakfast the next morning, once again looking well-scrubbed. His hair and the collar of his shirt are damp, William is amused to see. He wonders who is taking him in hand and making him tidy himself for his visits to the great cabin. Boys his age are not natural washers, if his memories of Addiscombe are any indication.

Afterwards, the others leave and Robert looks at him rather apprehensively. 

“Did you learn numbers when you learnt to write, Robert?”

“I can count, and add. We didn’t do more. But sir, I want to learn so I can take the angle of the sun and know where upon the earth we are,” he says, in a breathless rush.

“Well, you’ll have to ask him for that. I can teach you what comes before.”

They start with more additions. William is not sure he has a real talent for teaching, but Robert is quick and eager to learn. The hour passes easily enough. It ends when James returns to the cabin. “Off you go, now,” he tells Robert. 

“Yes sir, thank you sir.” 

“Well?” says James.

“He is eager to learn navigation,” says William. “You can take over soon.” He puts the papers with their sums into his writing case and stands up to leave.

“Don’t go, Godders.” James sits heavily on his bed, and William sits back down at the table, waiting. 

“The last time I slept properly was at that inn.” James is staring at the floor.

“That was days ago. How do you go on, James?”

“I am used to it. They never give me peace. But when you are here … I get some rest. Stay with me, Billy?” He looks up, pleading.

William stands. “Of course. I shall latch the door.” He does so and crosses to the bed. James is still sitting with shoulders slumped. William kneels and reaches for his boot.

“What are you doing?” He pulls his foot away.

“Oh James, let me.”

“On your knees? No!”

“Don’t you remember?”

James frowns. “Yes. But that was different. Stand up, Billy.” He bends down and pulls the boots off himself, remains bent over with his elbows on his knees.

“Come, James.” He places a hand on James’ shoulder, presses him back. James gives in and lies down. The bed is narrow. William sits down so James is curled around him. He gives James his right hand. They have done this before. James sighs and then the cabin is quiet, except for the ever-present sounds of the ship: the water rushing along the sides, the creaking of the timbers, the occasional voices of the men on deck. William gazes out of the stern window, at the wake, a straight path to the past. James is still, and quiet. The warmth of his body is pressed against William’s backside and his awareness of everything else fades. His cock is hard in his breeches. He has rarely been this hard. He can scarcely breathe. He shifts, and behind him James stirs and mutters, so he tries to be still again, for him. Time seems to have stopped. And now he is aware of more than just warmth from James’ body. He wants this to end, needs to be able to escape to his own cabin. 

He wants it never to end.

He has his eyes closed, trying to breathe calmly, when James places his other hand on William’s thigh. “Billy?”

“James, please …” The fingers dig in, slightly. “James, I can’t …”

“Can’t what, Billy?” James’ voice is rough and soft with sleep.

“I can’t bear it.” He tries to take back his hand, but James tightens his grip. “You know I have always …” His voice cracks. “I have always wanted—”

“I do know.”

“Then you are cruel!”

“Am I?”

“I am used to wanting without hope. I can bear that. I must. But I cannot bear it if you make me hope.” He has not looked at James. “If you make me hope and snatch it back.” Tears fall and now he does wrench himself away and stand. He wants to get away, but he dares not run from the cabin sobbing. He steps over to the window and presses his forehead to the cool glass. 

Behind him, he hears James stand. “Billy?” But he doesn’t come closer. “I don’t want—”

“I know you don’t—”

“I don’t want to snatch anything back, Billy.” James’ voice is sharp.

“Oh.”

James comes up behind him, places his hand on William’s shoulder. A tremor runs through his whole body and he tips his head against James’ hand. They stand together quietly, looking out at the sea. James brings his other hand up and wipes away William’s tears.

At last, William is calm enough to leave the cabin.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter fifteen**

He doesn’t know what James told Lorna yesterday afternoon to explain his absence at dinner. When the ship was quiet, he got up and ventured to the galley, where the cook gave him tea, and hot water to wash his face, without asking any questions.

It is still dark when he needs to go up on deck. He feels his way up the ladder, hoping to slip forward unnoticed. Bill is at the helm. “Mornin’,” he says quietly.

“Good morning,” says William. Bill doesn’t try to engage him, and he walks towards the bow, past where the night watch are huddled together near the mast, talking softly. The men nod, but don’t address him. The breeze is cool and damp and he pushes his hair off his face and feels it wash him clean. He stays there, as the sky behind him slowly lightens. When the sun creeps above the sea, the rest of the men come on deck to start the day, and William goes back below.

He cannot stay away from breakfast and make James explain again, so he goes to the cabin and slips in without knocking. James is sitting at the table with his head in his hands.

“Forgive me, James.”

He looks up. “Forgive you? For what? You have done nothing to be forgiven for. It is I who should ask forgiveness.”

William takes the chair nearest James and reaches for his hand. “Forgive me for my cowardice.” James looks as if he would interrupt, but William continues, “Forgive me for believing you would hurt me—”

“You are one of the bravest men I know, Billy. And why would you not believe I would hurt you? I have hurt everyone I ever loved.”

“Do not say such a thing, James! Such a dangerous thing!”

“I'm sorry. I am a dangerous man.” His hand tightens in William's, his bent finger like their own private talisman.

There is a knock at the door and they draw their hands back. “Come,” says James, his voice rough. Robert opens the door and walks in with the coffee pot, followed by the cook with the food. 

James stands up and reaches for the coffee. “Thank you, Robert. Thank you, Jeffers. Coffee, William?” He is using the bustle to distract from what came before, and William is grateful. He is drinking coffee when Lorna arrives, yawning. 

“I do little on this ship other than sleep,” she says. “Good morning, James, William. How do you do? Hello, Robert. Do you remember what you learnt the other day? I shall quiz you, you know!” 

Robert looks alarmed and she laughs at him. The sound is like a warm breeze after a storm. 

“Once more into the breach …” Robert recites.

“Unto,” says Lorna, “it’s ‘unto the breach, dear friends, once more’. But you did well, Robert.” She smiles at him and he looks slightly less solemn than normally.

“And sums, Robert?” says James.

“Let the poor boy eat in peace, James,” says William, and James shrugs. 

“Pour me some coffee, would you?” says Lorna. They eat in silence and when they are done, James stands up.

“Come, Godders, let’s leave the schoolroom and get some air.”

The tension of being with him on deck feels new. James swings himself into the rigging, but William doesn't follow. Atticus has the helm and he calls out pleasantly. _What would he think if he knew? He has never looked at William meanly. How would he look at James if he knew what has passed between them? It is one thing to tolerate a harmless molly, another to follow … but what has James actually said? Precious little. Precious indeed._ William stands at the stern rail and looks up, at where James is seated on the yard, leaning against the mast. He has pulled the spyglass out of his pocket and is scanning the horizon. His absorption gives William licence to look, and his breath catches in his throat. He looks away, out at the wake, stretching behind them in a gentle curve, showing how the ship has come about, beating its way into the breeze, across the ocean to a place where the rest of his life will begin. Impossible to know what that life will be, now everything has been upended. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter sixteen**

It is not possible to speak again as the day progresses. James is busy on deck, and Lorna is in the cabin, where she remains even after Robert comes up and scampers into the rigging as if he needs to throw off the gravity of Shakespeare's war. William longs for privacy, but the thought of his tiny, dim cabin is not appealing. At last, he ventures to climb himself, assured by Denham that the ship will not be put about soon and he will not be in the way. Robert has scaled all the way to the main top yard and is sitting, swinging his feet, as easy as if he was sitting on a stool at home. William climbs to the main yard and looks out over the sparkling waves.

“What do you see?” he calls up to Robert.

“Only sea … no! Oh! Dolphins! Do you see?” He points off to the side. William shades his eyes, and sees them too, leaping in the swell, now coming closer, racing the ship, arching through the bow wave. Their apparent delight lifts the tension of his mood somewhat, but not wholly. Still, he can be almost alone with his thoughts up here.

The sound of Robert’s voice drifts down: “Once more _unto_ the breach, my friends, once more!”

What a strange band they are, James and he and Lorna and Robert. Two damaged men, a woman adrift and a motherless child.

Suddenly, Robert scrambles up. “Oh sir!” he shouts, “I think I see land!” 

William peers up at him. “Land?” He strains his eyes, but cannot see himself. “James!” he calls down to the deck, needlessly, as James is already climbing. 

“It’s a long line,” calls Robert, “not a bump.”

James reaches the yard and there is a strange dance as he moves out past William, leaving him with the security of the mast. “Hello,” he says, pulling the spyglass from inside his shirt. Above them, Robert is pointing off the starboard bow. James raises the glass to his eye. “Ah yes!” he says. “Look, Godders.” He hands the glass to William. The horizon is not the straight line of the sea, but a darker uneven smudge. 

“Damn, Atticus!” James calls down, “Fine sailing!” 

On deck the men are clustered at the starboard rail, peering ahead, although the smudge is so faint and low they can certainly not glimpse it from there. Lorna emerges at the hatchway, and James calls to her: “Land! America!”

“America!” she exclaims.

America. It has not seemed entirely real, yet.

“America, Billy!” says James, triumphant happiness in his eyes. “We did it!” He reaches for the spyglass, closing his hand over William’s. “We did it,” he says, softer. “We are free.”

William catches some of James’ happiness, but there is still so much uncertainty. Perhaps once they arrive in the city James will drift away, have no more need of him, regret what has passed between them, however insubstantial. He could not bear it. To be cut off from everything and everyone he has known. To be cut off from James. The thought appals him, steals his breath. He looks away, out at the empty ocean, and wishes the voyage were longer, endless, suspended from time. 

James lowers the spyglass again. “Billy?” he says, “are you not pleased?”

“I am. Of course I am.” But his voice catches. “Forgive me, James, I think I will go below, now.” He moves to the ratlines to start the descent. James leans down and lays his hand over William’s on the rope. He doesn't say anything, but William feels easier as he climbs carefully, looking neither down nor up. He hurries below, avoiding Lorna.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter seventeen**

He sits upon the cot in his small, dim cabin, which has become a home over these weeks. A refuge and a place where he may have remade himself. His coat now hangs on the peg where his gown had hung, before he gave it up. How much has changed. London seems impossibly far away, another life. 

Distantly, the sounds of the crew drift down to him. Atticus calls for all hands to go about, and there is a tramping as the men move to their positions. The call of instructions and the ship is turned smoothly to the opposite tack. Then the clanging of the cook summoning the men to their dinner and noise of them going below to eat. It is all familiar now.

His thoughts are drifting when there is a knock at his door and James comes in. “Billy?” He takes the single step to the bed, lifts his hand but doesn't reach for William, and lets it drop. “What is wrong? What have I done?” His earlier pleasure has been wiped away. “Will you come to dine now, at least?”

“Nothing. You have done nothing, James.” He stands up. “Of course I’ll come to dinner.” He tries to smile. 

James does reach out now, and brushes the back of his fingers down William’s cheek. “Don’t be … afraid,” he says, looking intently to catch William’s reaction.

“No?”

“No.” He lets William walk out first and follows him to the great cabin, bathed in slanting light. Lorna is sitting at the table. 

“How thrilling!” she says. “America!”

“Indeed, ma’am,” he says, forcing himself to smile.

“We are already Americans!” James says. He puts a bottle of brandy on the table. “We must drink a toast to our new home.” James pours and raises his glass. “To freedom from judgment!” He looks very pointedly at William and William cannot look away.

“To freedom,” William echoes. 

“Freedom from judgment,” James repeats, never shifting his gaze. William is vaguely aware of Lorna, her glass raised, but neither of them looks at her. Finally, the cook brings in the meal and the intensity is broken.

“When shall we arrive, do you think, James?” says Lorna. 

“I don't know exactly where we are, what part of the coast we have spied. But we won't be at sea above a day or two more.” 

“Thank God!” she says. “I am tired of my own company.” She laughs. “I have no idea what I shall do when we arrive, but I have survived before on hostile ground. I shall survive again.”

“Hostile ground, eh?” says James.

“What do you think that miserable house was to me?”

James just grunts and turns away to gaze out of the stern window at the fading light. 

“You have no idea, William,” says Lorna.

“No,” he says.

James pours more brandy, and Lorna pushes her glass across. “Godders?” says James, tipping the bottle in his direction. William doesn't want to be drunk, but he is tired of the tension, so he accepts. 

When the meal ends, Lorna stands to leave. “Good evening. Be careful, James. Good evening, William.” She staggers slightly as the ship rolls. James catches her elbow and walks her out, leaving William standing at his place. 

He steps over to the locker and sits, half turned to watch the wake, already darkened by the ship’s shadow as the sun sets off the bow.

James returns and comes over to where William is, puts his hand on his shoulder. William turns his face and James tips his hand up. William drags his cheek against James’ hand, the bent finger catching his mouth. He gasps, open-mouthed against James’ rough palm, full of the sharp scent of tar from the rigging. James is standing very close behind him and he leans back into his solid heat. James pushes his other hand into William’s hair. His breath, too, is short. 

“Christ, Billy.” James sits down hard on the locker and William turns to face him, their knees bumping, reaching for him, one hand on the back of his neck, pulling him forward, the other on his chest. James resists, but William does not release him, he bends towards him and now their foreheads are touching and James drags a huge, rattling breath and William lets him be still and his breath is unsteady too. But now he can no longer be patient and he seeks James’ mouth, and James lifts his face, meeting him, and William has wanted this for so long —James’ soft mouth, his coarse beard — but he is careful. Their mouths brush and James gasps, flinches almost, but William cannot give this up so soon, and now James softens to him. His hand is clutching at William’s knee and he slips it higher and brings the other up, into his hair and William’s entire mind, his whole being, is aware only of where they touch. 

Time stops.

“Sir, Mr Delaney, sir?” There is an urgent knocking at the door and James pulls back.

“What?”

“You are needed on deck, sir.”

“Fuck.” James raises his voice: “I will be there directly.” Drops it to a murmur: “Christ, Billy … stay here? Please?”

He stands, trailing his hand down William’s face. At the door, he turns. His eyes are very bright, fevered. He slips out.

William’s heart is pounding, his mouth feels raw. He stares out of the window, wishes he knew what was happening on deck, but he cannot follow James, he would certainly betray something, so he does as James asked and waits.

“We are closer than I thought,” James says, coming back in and startling William. “Atticus is a fine sailor, and it seems I am better at finding our way across the ocean than I knew.” He doesn’t come back to where William is still sitting on the locker, but stands at the table, as if uncertain.

“I wish we could be suspended here forever,” says William. 

“I do not. The walls are thin. The eyes are many.”

William looks away from his intensity, but James comes to stand in front of him. “I have to take the helm now, Billy. Will you come on deck?”

“Where there are many eyes?”

“Just come and breathe.” James turns away. William waits a few minutes before he goes on deck. He walks forward; Denham and the man whose hands he bandaged nod and smile, but no one else pays him any mind. No one seems to notice what feels to him as if it is written on his face. Perhaps the many eyes do not see everything after all.

The breeze is fresh and it is possible now to see the dark smudge of the land from the deck itself. Bill comes to stand next to him. “America! I never quite believed him,” he says, “but what choice did we have? Seemed as good a chance as any. New world, might be better than old England. At least there’s no nobs.”

William glances at him. He likes Bill and is grateful for his forbearance. “It might be better. Did you really join his enterprise never believing it would succeed?”

“Well, I thought he _could_. Didn't have any better plans, at the time. He is a forceful man, James Delaney. And I thought I might as well go to America. From what Atticus said.”

Bill isn't the only one who entered upon this enterprise without any real hope of success; he himself never thought at the start that they would arrive at the end. Not that this is the end. Merely the end of the first part of the journey. And he does not know what lies ahead, or even who he will journey with. James may speak as if they will continue together, but William can only dare to hope.

Evening has fallen as they talked and the land can no longer be seen. He walks back to the helm.

“I am going below now,” he says.

“Good night, Godders,” says James, quite lightly, and William descends to his own cabin, unsure what he expected, and sure James was right not to draw attention. 

*

“Good night, Billy.” He half wakes as James stands over him in his cabin, a looming shape outlined against the doorway.

“James …” But he slides back into sleep and in the dawn cannot be entirely certain of his memory.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter eighteen**

His stomach flutters with nerves and excitement as he walks into the great cabin. James had not been on deck when he went up in the pale early light, having only come down late. He is still asleep and William looks down at him — face creased in a frown, muttering as always — and sits on the bed. He puts his hand on James’ hip, and feels him relax. His face eases and he is quiet. William listens to the sounds of the ship starting the day: the men below going up on deck, brooms sweeping, the cook rattling his pans in the galley. All too soon Lorna and Robert will come in. 

“James,” he says, low. “Wake up now, James.”

James opens his eyes. At first he seems confused, but his face softens as he sees William and he smiles. It is so rare, like a gift. “Billy,” he says. He reaches up and touches William’s cheek. Greatly daring, William bends to him. Their lips brush, the merest hint of a kiss. “Billy,” says James again. He shifts back in the bed. “Stay here?”

The door is unlatched, but any visitor will surely knock. William lies down, his head on James’ chest. James’ arm at his back. Surely James can feel how his heart is crashing wildly, can feel his ragged breath? It is impossible to relax. James’ hand is in his hair. “Christ, Billy,” he says. “What are you doing to me?”

“What you have done to me.”

“Yes.”

And they lie there, as the sun bathes the cabin in morning light and the water rushes along the side, in a world they will soon have to leave.

All too soon, there is a knock at the door. “James?” calls Lorna.

William gets up, backs away to the locker. “Ten minutes,” James calls.

Lorna makes a noise of displeasure. “If I must.” Her footsteps recede. James gets out of bed and pulls his nightshirt over his head; he has no shame. William feels his face heat, but James’ eyes hold a challenge, so he cannot look away. His life is written all over his body — someday William may learn that history, just as someday he may tell his own. Not now, not here.

James steps quickly into his drawers, his eyes still on William, pulls on his shirt and breeches and is sitting to put on stockings and boots when there is another knock. James sighs. “Come in.”

It is not Lorna, but Robert. “Sir! The land has come so close in the night! Will you come and see?”

“Not now. Go and fetch me some water, would you?”

“Will we reach port today?” says William when the boy has gone.

“Perhaps. Near enough for you and I to go ashore.”

“You and I?”

“Yes.”

There is another knock. “Sir?” calls the cook.

“Come.” And he walks in bringing the welcome scent of coffee, followed by Robert with a can of hot water. “You may go and call Mrs Delaney, now,” James tells him. He is drying his face when Lorna walks in. She takes in William seated on the locker and her expression is shrewd, but she doesn’t comment.

“I’m famished!” she says, sinking into a chair. “It is so dreadfully long since dinner with no supper like a civilised person expects.”

“Well,” says James, “we have almost reached civilisation again.”

“Thank God,” she says.

“No sums today,” says James when they have finished eating. Robert seems torn between regret and excitement. “Don’t worry, you will learn your mathematics soon enough. You’ll be needed on deck today.” 

“Yes sir. May I go now, please?”

“Yes. Are you coming, Godders?” James is already walking out of the cabin, and William follows.

The land is indeed much nearer, a low sandy shore on the port side. The whole crew is busy on deck as Atticus and now James wring every possible yard of speed from the ship. The atmosphere is cheerful, despite the work. The Americans pleased to be nearing home after tedious months on the island, and the little band from London eager for whatever comes next. Despite his apprehensions, William catches the mood as he stands at the rail watching the coast. Lorna comes to stand next to him.

“What will he do? He has his letter of introduction, doesn’t he? Will he go straight to Washington with it? Why is he going to New York first?”

“Ma’am, you will have to ask him yourself,” says William, a little stiffly. Their earlier ease when she was hurt and under his care has hardened as her curiosity about him and James has grown. 

“He still doesn't tell you what he’s about?” She seems about to laugh derisively. 

“If you will excuse me,” he says, and walks aft to the helm. James looks up and smiles and William is almost undone. 

“We’ll arrive in fine style!” says Atticus.

“Yes, how she flies along,” says William, standing near James. Not close enough to feel his heat. No one wants to leave the deck.

Hours later, when buildings and carts and people and horses can easily be seen on the island of New York, James says to Atticus: “I’m going ashore, we can’t just expect a berth. I’ll row in and speak to the harbour master. Godfrey will accompany me.”

Atticus nods and calls for the boat to be lowered down.

“Come below,” says James in a low tone, and William follows.

“I’m so tired of being among people,” says James as he crosses to the great cabin. William is too. He goes to his own cabin to dress. When James comes back out into the main deck he is wearing his forbidding greatcoat, like armour against the world.

They descend into the boat, James going first and steadying the ladder as William climbs down. James takes up the oars and William sits with his back to the ship as they row away. “I am tired of being among people who think they know me. Who think they know us.” The boat is terribly intimate after the ship, and James keeps his eyes on William as he rows. 

“We will have to return to the ship.”

“Yes, until I pay the crew off.”

If he doesn’t say this now, he will lose his nerve.

“Come to an inn with me tonight, James. Have some peace.”

“Peace?” 

“Yes. Let me give you that.”

“That is not what I give you.”

“No. It is not.” He cannot keep looking into James’ eyes, so he shifts his gaze to the town behind, and James bends to the oars and they do not speak again.

The boat reaches a wharf and James stands to throw their line to a man on the dock, and places his hand on William’s elbow to steady him as he climbs from the rocking dinghy to the steps, slippery with algae, on legs made unsteady by the time at sea. He supposes it is unmanly to accept such help, but he does not care. “Thank you, James,” he says, and James gives him a searching look but does not say anything in reply.

James asks the way to the harbour master’s office and they walk along the quay in silence. 

“Good Hope” has been noted, and her American colours, but they of course have no record of her. The harbour master is full of bluster and questions. James reaches into his coat and withdraws the letter from Colonnade. The man looks at the direction. “He ain’t here, you know. In New York. The president.” 

James gives him a flat look and says: “Where may I berth my ship?” The man grunts but writes upon a slip of paper and summons an underling who leads them out and directs them to a vacant berth.

“I need a room,” James asks him. “Where is the nearest inn?”

He drops back to where William is lagging. “I must go back to the ship,” he says. “Get a room. I will come to you.” He has dropped his voice very low. “I will come to you,” he repeats.

William is glad to walk alone away from the dock. The inn seems clean enough. He goes up to the room and sits on the bed and waits.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter nineteen**

The hours stretch out and still James does not come. But he said he would. He said it twice and James has never been untrue to his word. 

So William goes down and orders dinner. “When would you like it served?”

“When my … friend arrives.” The cook, a pleasant-looking woman, nods.

He asks for hot water to be sent to the room. He wishes he could shave, but his things are on board. At first he had been terrified to shave while standing on the unsteady deck; he had grown accustomed to it, but still, it will be easier on land again. William has never liked the feel of a beard’s roughness on his own face. He washes and dresses carefully and sits down to wait again.

The light in the room is dimmer when there is a heavy tread on the stairs. The door opens and James pauses on the threshold, as if unsure of his welcome. William has remained seated on the bed. He too is unsure. “Come in, James.”

But still James hesitates. William gets up and crosses to him at the door, takes his hand and draws him into the room, latches the door. James takes a ragged breath and steps towards William when he turns. “Billy,” he says. “Here I am.”

William has wanted something, anything, from James for so long; now he is not sure what he wants from him in this moment. But he knows what he wants to give him. He wants to hold him. He raises his hand to the back of James’ neck and urges him closer. James frowns and appears to war with himself, but then he gives in. “Here we are,” says William, and they stand together in the middle of the room. His short hair is coarse under William’s hand, and stiff with saltiness. He is still wearing his coat, standing with his arms at his sides; he lays his forehead against William’s.

“James?” says William, a whisper. James nods, as if coming to a decision, and tips his face up. William leans down and brings their mouths together. James steps even closer and raises his hands, one to William’s shoulder, the other to push into his hair. And now he is no longer tentative; he presses forward, eagerly deepening their kiss. But William is not ready to cede control to James, he tightens his fingers on his neck, tilts his head just so. He is not accustomed to this, to this give and take, with someone he has known, has loved, most of his life. It is profoundly more than anything he has ever felt and emotion threatens to overwhelm him. He breaks the kiss, pushes his hands beneath James’ coat, drops it from his shoulders, and lets it fall to the floor. James’ feet tangle in it as he forces him, gently, backwards to the bed. James sits and looks up at William, as if uncertain what will come next; as if uncertain what he should allow to happen next. William puts his hands on James’ shoulders and presses him down and James resists, and then he relents. He lies still on the bed, looking up at William, and his face is open. William traces his finger down the scar under his eye; he wants to know everything. James catches his wrist, pulls his hand to his mouth, closes his eyes. And suddenly, William can’t be looming over him. He withdraws his hand, kneels down quickly to pull off James’ boots. James half sits up, but he doesn’t protest. William kicks off his own shoes and crawls onto the bed. James turns towards him. And now it is he who is leaning down, a question in his eyes, so stormy and dark always, now tender. “Billy,” he murmurs, and William can only nod. Their kiss is deeper, more urgent than before.

“Sir? Sir? Your dinner, sir.” The knock on the door is loud and insistent. James starts back and turns away from William.

“Thank you,” William calls. “I ... we will be down directly.” The man harrumphs and footsteps recede on the stairs.

“I sorry, James. I ordered—”

“I am starving,” says James, getting up. “Thank you, Billy.”

William is also hungry, but the tenuous thing between them is shattered. He stands too and reaches for James. He knows he looks wounded, he can’t help it.

“Oh Godders.” James sounds amused, but soft.

William smooths James’ hair down, tidies his own hair and straightens his clothes; James sits to put his boots back on. 

As they enter the dining room, curious eyes turn to them. William hopes there is nothing to see on his face. James’ face is unreadable, as always.

He is hungrier than he thought. The food is plain, but better than shipboard fare.

“Thank you, Godders,” says James, wiping his mouth at last. “It took longer to dock than I hoped, and I had to negotiate a harbour watch,” he says, explaining the lateness of his coming.

“Where is Mrs Delaney? And Robert?”

“He’s with Atticus, I think. She said she would find a hotel.”

“And you just left them?”

“Yes. I’m not their keeper. She is a resourceful woman, used to looking after herself, I think.” There is a flash of danger in his eyes. “I can’t … I am so tired. For months I have thought of nothing but achieving my goal. And now … I don’t know if I have done that. But I am tired.” The look he gives William is pleading.

“Yes. Come upstairs now.” William stands and walks out of the dining room, knowing eyes follow and not caring. He asks for hot water and ascends the stairs. 

In the room his eyes fall on his bag, which James had dropped unnoticed, before. James shrugs. “I thought you would want some things,” he says. “Forgive me for prying among your possessions.”

“Of course. Thank you.” He is continually surprised by James.

There is a tap at the door and a servant carries in a can of water.

“Thank God,” says James. “I stink, I’m sure.” He pulls off his shirt and begins to wash. William sits on the bed, unable to look away. James looks over his shoulder and sees him looking. “I’m an ugly brute,” he says. “A marked monster.”

“No.” Now is not the time to ask about the marks. He stands up and touches the healed cut that he dressed on the ship what seems a long time ago. “Not to me.”

James laughs, wry, and turns to face him, water running down his chest. “I never cared,” he says. “They were only pain, and what is pain?” He turns away and drops his breeches and drawers to finish bathing. William backs away to sit on the bed again and wait.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter twenty**

When James is finished washing, he approaches the bed naked. William is still clothed, lost in looking.

“Still dressed, Billy?” says James. “I thought … forgive me if I assumed …” 

“No, I …” William’s breath is so short he can hardly speak. He stands up and begins to undress, his hands clumsy as he unties his neckcloth. Nothing about this is familiar to him either. He has not known many men, despite what James may think. “James, I am as unsure as you, I think,” he manages.

James is seated on the bed, his powerful thighs, with their black bands, sprawling slightly open, his cock lying unaroused between them. William is acutely aware of his own slight frame, thin and pale, and of his arousal. 

“Come here,” says James, his voice very low and rough. William stands before him. James tugs his shirt from his breeches. “Take it off.” William pulls it over his head and drops it to the floor. James’ hands move to the buttons of his breeches. “Now these.” William pushes them down. “And these.” James pushes his hands into the top of William’s drawers, pulls on the drawstring. It is obvious how aroused he is. He lets the drawers fall and stands naked in front of James. He is not easy in his own skin, as James is, but he resists the urge to cover himself. James places his hands on William’s waist and tugs him closer, between his open knees. He staggers slightly and catches himself with his hands on James’ shoulders. His skin feels on fire under James’ hands. The bed is high, James’ head is level with his chest. He leans forward and tentatively, almost curiously, licks at William’s nipple. No one has _ever_ done that and he cannot help his shocked gasp. James’ rough beard rubs across his skin. William’s knees are shaking, he is panting. James looks up at him. “Billy?” William can’t form words to respond. James stands up, jostling against him, and turns them, pushes him down onto the bed. “Lie down.” William scrambles backwards across the bed. “Better.” James crawls after William, his eyes almost wild. William glances down, sees that James too is now aroused. He looms over William, his muscular chest, covered in markings and scars, filling his vision. 

It is too much.

“James?

“Billy?” James seems to return from far away, or perhaps from inside his own head.

He doesn’t want to stop, but he is overwhelmed. He brings a hand up to James’ face. He needs to feel him, to regain some control. “Where are you?”

James moves off him, flops down on his back. “I do go … somewhere. I hoped it might not happen. With you.” He rubs his hands down his face, presses at his temples. “Let me be!” he says, but it doesn't seem he is speaking to William.

“I’m here, James.” 

James seizes his hand. “Yes. Thank God!”

“Can you tell me? Will you?”

“She’s always in my head. So jealous.”

William waits for more, afraid of prying deeper than James can allow.

“Salish …” His voice trails off. William doesn’t know who that is. James leans up on an elbow, stares down into his face. “Billy, I’m madder than you know.” He lies back down. “Maybe too mad.”

“No, James.” Now it is his turn to lean over James, attempt to make him see outside of himself. “I am not afraid of you. I made my choice long ago. When you came to find me, I made my choice. You thought I was weak? I am not. I am not afraid.” James tries to turn away, but William cannot let him, turns him back with a hand on his jaw. “You are not too mad.” 

James’ eyes search his. “I hope you don’t regret that.”

William’s arousal has faded. He lies down with his head on James’ chest, his hand tracing the black marks on his skin, stroking down his stomach, trailing back up. James brings his hand up to his head, cupping it, tugging on his hair. Slowly his cock starts to stir again. He strokes lower and lower, James’ cock is also hard again. 

James catches his hand, stills it. “What do you want from me?”

“Here? Now? I want you. Let me take you out of yourself.” He frees his hand, resumes his exploration. “Then I want your hand.”

“My hand?” James sounds incredulous. “My hand?”

“Yes.” The hand with the bent finger is still in his hair. He reaches again for the other, rough-palmed. “Your hand.” He brings it to his mouth. “For now. There will be a time and a place for other … things. But not here, not now.” And looking straight at James, he licks his own palm and closes his hand on him. James makes a low, shocked sound. William raises himself up, places his other hand on James’ chest, to feel his heart, beating fast. He bends towards his mouth, his hair brushing James’ face, and kisses him, deeper than he has before, all the while stroking his cock, swiping his thumb through the leaking wetness. James’ hips jerk up and he is panting and gasping. William swallows the noise he is making, never stilling his hand, feeling the tension building through James’ whole body, until, with a sharp cry that he cannot stifle, James comes in his hand and over his own belly. “Christ, Billy!” His breaths are harsh and he throws an arm across his eyes. William wants to see him, but he can give him this. Finally, James scrubs his hand across his eyes and looks at him, his face softer than he has ever seen it. “Billy,” he whispers, “what have you done?”

He props himself up and leans over William, traces his mouth with a finger, infinitely tender. This James is utterly unlike the man he shows to the world. “It’s quiet in my head,” he says in a wondering tone.

“Is it?”

He nods.

And then he kisses William, gently, lingeringly. “Thank you.” He slips his hand down William’s throat, across his collarbones, strokes down his chest, the roughness of his palm — so delicious! — dragging on his nipples, first one, and when he hisses, the other, down his belly, he traces each hipbone, slowly, so slowly, and at last he reaches William’s cock. He lifts his hand to his mouth, and licks it, his eyes fixed on William’s, and finally, finally! his hand is on him. He can't help the moan that escapes him. He has dreamt of this for so long, since he was little more than a child! He closes his eyes to block out everything except the sensation, the drag and pull and slide of James’ hand, the swipe of his thumb. He brings his fist to his mouth, biting on a knuckle to keep from crying out. James’ breaths are ragged. The tension builds and builds, coils tighter and tighter, until he comes, harder and with more pure joy than he ever has. He opens his eyes. James is looking down at him, almost shocked. He reaches up, pulls James’ face down to his and they pant together, their chests heaving. Finally, he can speak, but all he can say, in a whisper, is “James.”

*

They stir before dawn, as the first sounds of the waking harbour drift up to the window. 

They had lain tangled together until cooling sweat and drying spunk were unpleasant and then wiped themselves and pulled back the covers and slept, James quiet and still. William woke several times, to lie in the dark and listen to his even breaths and feel his solidity and drift back under, tugged by the tide of sleep. The last time he wakes he feels James’ eyes on him, even though it is really too dark to see. 

“It’s still quiet in my head,” he says. “You gave me real rest. At last.”

“In London,” says William, “you promised me a place without judgment. I do not know if there is such a place, out there, in the world. But you have made it for me, here.” He reaches for James’ hand. “Let me make that place for you.” 

And James says simply: “Yes.”

**THE END**


End file.
